The World's Greatest Detective
by Ganondorfdude11
Summary: Soon after WWII, a strange specter begins hunting criminals in Gotham. Both the GCPD and the Justice League hope to uncover the identity of this new hero, while he chases the Red Hood. Set in the same universe as Superman vs. Hitler.
1. Chapter 1: A Superstitious, Cowardly Lot

The World's Greatest Detective

Chapter 1

Ernie's hands trembled as he held the gun. The subtle beads of sweat made his grip loose. He couldn't aim it right. He squeezed the trigger and a deafening crack split the air. He could feel his arms ache from the recoil. He missed. That shouldn't have happened. He had been a good soldier in France. He had fought the Nazis just two years ago. He had been a sharpshooter, a sniper. He could pick off a kraut at the farthest distance. And now he couldn't hit this _thing_ right in front of him.

He squeezed again. Crack. He missed again. The rain beaded up on the lens of his glasses. Everything was foggy. He could hear the rats shuffling through the garbage cans right behind him. He could smell the scent of rotten eggs, two-day-old baked potatoes, and leftover dish detergent moldering in the dumpster across the alleyway. But the thing was still there.

What had he done to deserve this? He was good man. He served his country. He went to church every Sunday. He paid his taxes. He helped old ladies cross the street. He didn't kick dogs. He was faithful to his wife. So why was this thing trying to kill him?

He squeezed the trigger a third time. Bang. It hit it. The thing lurched backward in shock, clutching its chest. He fired again. It missed. He heard the shot ricochet off of the dumpster with a sharp twang. But the thing wasn't dead. It kept coming. Kill it. Kill it now!

Bang. The thing stretched out one of its wings and the bullet passed through it. It was inhuman. One shot left. It was coming closer, closer. Ernie clutched the jewelry box close to his chest. It was their anniversary. He couldn't give it up. Charlene had always wanted a nice pearl necklace. She would write to him while he was on duty in France and tell him how wonderful it would be after the war was over. How they could get married, settle down and have three darling little children, and she could get all dressed up in an ermine coat and pearl necklace for Saturday nights on the town. That didn't happen after the war. They'd been living in their run-down low-rent apartment in the Narrows ever since the wedding and his job as a construction worker wasn't doing much but paying the bills. He would see her eyeing that pearl necklace every time they passed by the jewelry store. He had been saving for a year now just to buy her that necklace, and then his creep of a boss had fired him on his anniversary.

Nobody was going to buy that necklace, anyway. It wasn't as if he mugged an old grandma and stole _her_ necklace. It wasn't as if he ran into the store with a mask on and demanded every pearl necklace in the place. He had to do it. He needed to make Charlene happy. He had waited until after hours. He had picked the lock on the door; he had quietly slipped the box into his jacket. Nobody was supposed to see. But that thing did.

Ernie tentatively aimed the gun at the thing's glowing white eyes. He couldn't miss this time. Come on. Do it. Kill the creeper. He held his finger over the trigger. It's now or never. Do it. Save yourself.

Suddenly, it lunged forward, ducking the shot and tackling Ernie. He felt the rainwater splash over his aching body as he crashed into an ankle-high puddle. The thing gripped Ernie's hand, frozen and still gripping onto the gun. Ernie was scared.

"Please, mister. I'm sorry. I know I wasn't supposed to," he cried as the tears rolling down his face mixed with the filthy rainwater, "Let me go, please! I'll turn myself in! Don't kill me!"

The thing spoke. It was a raspy, gravelly voice, coming from deep within its throat, a monstrous voice. "I'll let you go this time," it growled, "but I want you to tell your friends about me."

"Who are you," Ernie yelled.

"I'm Batman."


	2. Chapter 2: The Legend Begins

Chapter 2

The rain beat against James Gordon's windshield like a billion like bombs, all exploding at once. He could hear his tires squeal as he made a right turn. Too many potholes in this godforsaken city. Nobody wise enough to fill them all up. Too much water on the streets, that's what it was. It was an accident waiting to happen.

But crappy streets were the least of his worries tonight. The Red Hood gang had pulled another bank job on the east side, and he was stuck patrolling the Narrows past midnight. Every punk and lowlife in Gotham saw his big black-and-white coup as a target. "Kill the police," that was what they always said.

Gordon glanced over at the passenger's seat. Flass was fast asleep, as usual. If he concentrated on the road, maybe he could ignore his partner's intermittent snoring. They couldn't be any more dissimilar, the two f them. Flass didn't care about crime. He cared about money. Just last week he had taken cutbacks from the Falcone family. Well, he wasn't sure he had taken cutbacks, but evidence doesn't get erased from the records every day. Hated kids, too. Beat one up two days ago just because he looked at him funny, or he was black. You never could tell with Flass. He probably didn't need a reason to cream that kid. Just felt like it.

Gordon turned the wheel again, and made the same right turn he had made twenty times that night, into the same narrow back alley. The trash never seemed to get collected in the Narrows. The same dumpsters he had cruised by for weeks were now engorged an overflowing with trash. Even the trash men avoided this dump.

He gently eased the car through the alley, past run-down tenement houses and squalid apartments. Just as he prepared to turn again, the dark figure of a man rushed toward the car, throwing itself against the windshield. Gordon slammed on the brakes, causing Flass to jolt forward with a yelp.

"Wassa? What happened, Jim?"

Gordon ignored him, and quickly opened the door and rushed toward the man's crumpled figure. He looked to be around twenty-five, white, blonde. He was wearing a dirty overcoat and overalls, and a pair of cracked glasses. He was muttering something to himself. Gordon grabbed the man and asked, "What's wrong? Are you all right? Who are you?"

"I'm Ernest Bean. I'm turning myself in," the man gasped as he feebly held out his hands, as if he wanted Gordon to cuff them.

"But you didn't do anything!"

"Robbed—jewelry store—he saw—me."

"Talk slower. What jewelry store, and who saw you?"

"Fifth and Vine—necklace—Batman."

"Batman? What's this Batman?"

"Batman. Batman. Batman."

Gordon turned to Flass and shouted, "Get HQ on radio. We have an injured civilian on McClurken and Tess. Hurry!"

Three weeks had passed since Ernest Bean first saw the Batman, and reports of sightings had been flooding GCPD ever since. Small-time crooks had been found tied up in back alleyways, on rooftops, inside hideouts. This Batman character had been hunting them down like rats.

"It just ain't right," said Flass as he sipped his coffee. Some fruitcake in a costume thinks he can take our jobs? And he ain't even legal-like. We oughta be busting up cooks like him instead of patrolling this crapsack of a neighborhood."

Gordon gripped the wheel of the patrol car as he made yet another sharp right. "He may be a vigilante, but he's a friend to us right now. Any help we could find would be a godsend in this crime wave."

"Well I says he's part of the problem. Everybody coming back home all hunky-dory on account of we won the war and all, and then they all goes crazy-like because they got shell-shock or something. Suppose the Bat guy is one of them? Suppose he goes cuckoo one of these days?"

"It's something that I don't like to think about. But there's a lot to this job I don't like to think about."

Just as the car's headlights beamed down the alleyway, Gordon could see a pair of kids fighting in an alcove. This time of night, that couldn't be good. He stopped the car and instinctively reached for his gun. Leaping out of the driver's seat, he pointed the gun at the mugger. "Stop. This is Gotham City Police. Put your hands in the air."

The mugger froze, but he wasn't looking at Gordon. His eyes were fixed on a shadowy figure positioned on the rooftop just above him. Gordon froze, too. The figure raised its arms up over its head like wings and paused for a moment, before leaping downward and tackling the screaming criminal. The thing rose, and turned to face Gordon. It raised an arm and aimed what looked like a gun at the wall opposite him. Gordon heard a light _thwip_ and felt something whizz over his head.

"All yours, pal," it said, just before rising up over the rooftops again.


	3. Chapter 3: Coffee and Newspaper

Chapter 3

The flimsy newspaper crinkled as Gordon turned its pages. He was home now, or the closest thing to home. Low-rent apartments weren't exactly full of amenities. Roof leaked when it rained. Plumbing backed up every day. It was a wonder the lights stayed on.

The newspaper's headline screamed in gigantic bold lettering: "Who is the Batman?" He could tell it was one of those "in-depth" articles that journalists always liked to put out. It had a map and chart next to the story. It was a map of Gotham with marks everywhere, seemingly at random, as if someone had taken a shotgun to it. "Sightings of the Batman were reported all over Gotham City" read the caption.

The smell of coffee began to rise through the air. Barbara squeezed her frame through the doorway while holding Jim's mug of coffee. She was due in six months. Lord knew this city wasn't where he wanted to raise a family. But what else was there? She glanced at his paper as she set the mug down on the rickety table.

"That Bat fellow been giving you a lot of trouble lately?"

He gripped the mug and lifted it to his lips. Lukewarm coffee. He hated it, but they couldn't afford a new stove. He gulped it down stoically and wiped his moustache.

"Just last night he took out a mugger in the Narrows. Got away before I could arrest him."

Barbara lowered her eyes and turned her back to him, "Well, I guess you can't win them all."

He knew what she really meant. If Gordon were to net the biggest phenomenon to hit Gotham City in decades, he would be promoted almost instantaneously. He wouldn't be shoved away like he was now, patrolling the Narrows night after night. He could actually be a husband, a provider.

But this Batman wasn't a criminal, he knew that. Even if he were handed the Batman on a silver platter, he wouldn't bring him in. This man didn't just make his work easier. He was practically his only ally. The Falcone gang and the Red Hood gang had been pulling jobs for months without the police ever getting involved. An officer was just as likely to beat up some poor schmuck as a criminal lowlife. He had always felt like the only sane man in a crazy world, and it gave him solace to know that he was not alone.

He continued to read the article. Usual moral outrage blather, stock quotes from elected officials about shutting down vigilantism if you promised to vote for them in the next election, et cetera et cetera. The _Gotham Gazette_ had really gone downhill since its chief editor left, he thought. Their wartime coverage was second only to the _Daily Planet._ Maybe he should start reading that paper. It had a larger comics section, anyway.

He turned the page. This story couldn't have been further from the front page's material. "Bruce Wayne to Host Charity Ball This Saturday." No-good robber baron was showing a bit of token philanthropy. The fan magazines would be all over this one, discussing how he looked, who he came with, who he was seeing. Trash. Just trash. If people like Bruce Wayne wouldn't turn a blind eye to the problems in this city, maybe it wouldn't need someone like Batman to take the law into his own hands.

He glanced farther down the page. "Superman Saves De-Railed Train, Millions Thankful." He closed the newspaper and laid it aside. He didn't need to read about somebody else's problems.


	4. Chapter 4: Interrogation

Chapter 4

It was 3:00 A.M. when Fred Vanders stumbled out of the Kissy Kitty Club in the slums of North Gotham. It was 3:04 when he received a smart slap on the cheek from a Ms. Rebecca Goldman, and was informed that she already had a boyfriend. It was 3:06 when the inebriated henchman finally collapsed on the stoop of St. Anthony's Mission at the corner of Tenth and Finger. It was 3:07 when the Batman came for him.

Fred didn't see him at first. He was an amorphous shadow among all of the other shadows. He didn't expect this shadow to grab him by his shirt collar and hoist him into the air. The next thing he knew, he was dangling high above the pavement, only the Batman's vice-like grip keeping him from becoming a sidewalk pancake. He couldn't tell how far up he was or how he even got there, but he knew that it was a long way down. He tried to plead for his life, but the words only came out in a garbled mess. He couldn't be _that_ drunk, could he?

At once he felt a stinging pain in his lower chest. "Say that one more time, and _enunciate._" The Batman's voice was a deep and hollow roar, as if he was possessed by an otherworldly demon. The voice got deep inside him and scared him to the bone.

"D-don't kill m-m-mee, pl-pl-pleas-s-se?" he did his best to stammer.

He felt the pain again. "I said _enunciate!_ Like they taught you in _school!_"

"Don't kill! Me! Don't kill me!"

He couldn't tell if the Batman was smiling. His vision was too blurry. But he chuckled smugly all the same. "Good boy," he held up his other hand and made a gesture, "now how many fingers am I holding up?"

Fred couldn't tell. It looked like two, the four, then maybe three. "Uh, three!"

He felt the pain in his chest again. "_Wrong!_ Again!"

"Two!"

"_Wrong!_ Try again, or you're going sidewalk diving."

All of Fred's muscles tensed involuntarily. He felt Batman's grip slipping. If it got any looser he was history. "Four! F-four fingers!"

He felt himself being hurled forward and then felt the hard concrete and gravel scrape against his skin. He was dead. No, he wasn't. He was on the rooftop. And he couldn't see anything but this big black bat staring down at him.

"Good answer, Fred. I guess you're sober enough to talk."

"Whaddaya want from me? I ain't no criminal!"

"Vagrancy, public drunkenness, propositioning a prostitute, multiple counts of sexual harassment, et cetera. I'd say you have quite the criminal record, Mr. Vanders. But I didn't pull you up here to talk about those, did I?"

Fred shook his head. He didn't want to get hurt again.

"That's right, Mr. Vanders. I want to talk to you about the Red Hood. You know about the Red Hood, don't you, Mr. Vanders?"

"I don't know nothing." Suddenly, he felt himself being lifted up again, and a hard leather hand wrapped itself around his throat.

"I can kill you ten different ways right now, Mr. Vanders. I don't want to, but I might not have a choice."

"I w-wasn't in on the racket—"

"—but you know about it, don't you Mr. Vanders?"

"I just drove the car. I wasn't in on the plans or nothing."

"But it makes you an accomplice. Very bad, Mr. Vanders, very bad. I'm thinking about ripping out your jugular right now if you don't tell me what else you know."

"Fella by the name of Marcone. Eddie Marcone. Let it slip that they was pulling a job on a card company next Tuesday. Said something about breaking through a chemical plant or something. Don't know nothing else, I swear to God!"

"Swear to me!" The Batman leaped from the rooftop with Fred in a headlock and landed firmly on the pavement below. Fred didn't know how he did it. He must have been able to fly or something. Suddenly, he felt a heavy blow to the back of his head, and everything was black.

The following morning at 6:34 A.M., Gotham City Police found a dirty, drunken vagrant by the name of Fred Vanders tied up outside St. Anthony's Mission in North Gotham, wearing a crude handwritten sign that said, "Compliments of the Batman."


	5. Chapter 5: The Red Hood's Last Stand

Chapter 5

The smell of cigarette smoke mingled with the stench of chemicals as Gordon waited outside of the Ace Chemical Plant. It was an old building, built sometime around the construction boom in the 1870's and later converted into a processing plant by one Henry Claridge during the Depression. Gordon didn't know what they manufactured or processed here, but it sure stank.

Fred Vanders had given them the tip about the Monarch Playing Card Company, and the force had dispatched all of the men to that building, right next door. Gordon was bringing up the rear, in case the gang decided to make a getaway through the plant. He fingered the gun at his holster nervously as he propped open the door, allowing the other blue-clad officers to step inside. There was a collective groan as the men got whiffs of the chemicals. They would be here until dawn, carefully hidden away, stealthily watching for any sign of the crooks in the luminescent green glow of the vats around them.

It must have been two hours before anything happened. He caught glimpses of shadows where there weren't any before. Three shadows. They must not have counted on us. Wanted it to be discreet. He grasped the gun and drew it out of his holster, then gestured to the other officers silently. Two of the thugs were dressed in dark colors with wide-brimmed hats, but the third was dressed more flamboyantly, with a purple suit and red cape, topped by a shiny crimson dome. It was like they wanted him to be shot first.

Maybe this would be bloodless. Maybe they would give up without a fight. But he was wrong. The crooks had spotted them. Shots pierced the air. The constant barrage of bullets beat into the sides of the chemical vats. Machine guns. Then the smell got worse. The vats were leaking.

The crooks panicked and fled, police gunfire raining down on top of them. Stray bullets hit one in the back of the head, and another in the shoulder. The third one leaped onto a stairway, and rushed up toward the walkway dangling precipitously above the oozing cisterns.

"After that one, men! He's the Red Hood!" Gordon followed his trail, firing sporadically at the criminal's feet, hoping to make him slip up. He kept running, until at last something made him stop.

The figure swooped in through the skylight, sending a shower of broken glass hurtling through the air. It landed just in front of the terrified Hood.

It was quite a sight to see. There was the Batman, with his cloaked, hooded form towering over his quivering red and purple prey. The Hood spun around, only to face Gordon's outstretched arm and revolver pointed straight at his face. He was caught between an angel and a devil, too scared to go to either one.

Suddenly, the Hood dived toward Gordon, causing him to fall backward as the Hood scrambled over him. Batman wasn't far behind. He leaped over Gordon and grasped the Red Hood by his cape. The Hood flailed his arms behind his head, grasping the cape and ripping it before Batman could trip him up.

"Why are you here? Have you been sent to punish me?" The Hood's voice was high and mousy, but with an undercurrent of cunning and deceit. "Don't you come any closer, or I'll jump! I swear I will!"

Gordon couldn't quite tell what happened next, whether the Hood leaped off the walkway by himself or whether Batman pushed him, but he heard a shrill scream just before a splash. The Red Hood was gone, purged by the toxic chemicals below.


	6. Chapter 6: Thrust into the Limelight

Chapter 6

Gordon dragged his feet through the halls of the Gotham City Police Department, with only the extremely concentrated caffeine surging through his bloodstream to keep him awake. It was 6:24 A.M., far too early to be up after what had happened last night. Sure, they had prevented a break-in, but, was it worth the lives of three men? And what a terrible way to go, too. Having your flesh eaten away by acid while you slowly drown wasn't a death he would wish on anyone, even a criminal as infamous as the Red Hood. They had tried to save the third guy, the one who had taken a bullet to the shoulder, but he died on the way to the hospital. Pity. They might have been able to get him to rat out the other members of the gang.

Gordon stopped at the door labeled, "Gillian B. Loeb, Commissioner of Police." He could make out Loeb's figure through the translucent glass. Criminy. Couldn't he have called later? Like noon?

Gordon clumsily turned the doorknob and stumbled into the Commissioner's office. "Gordon! I trust you had a good night's sleep?"

Gordon cracked a half-smile and decided to humor him, "Oh, always with the funny jokes, Commish!"

"I'm not here to shoot the breeze with you, Gordon. If it weren't for the untimely intervention of the Batman, we would have apprehended the Red Hood by now."

"Wait a second, Commissioner. The Hood threw himself into that vat. I heard him say it."

Loeb spun his chair around and began to unwrap a eucalyptus-scented breath mint. "It doesn't matter. If Batman hadn't bungled it up, we would be in custody of one of the most notorious criminals in Gotham."

Gordon said nothing, but he wasn't sure that the Hood even mattered. He was probably a figurehead, some low-level flunky that the creeps could consider expendable. He certainly didn't act like a brazen, hardened criminal in front of the Batman!

Loeb continued, "Nevertheless, we at the GCPD have seen fit to recognize your bravery in the line of duty. Effective immediately, you are granted a promotion to Captain."

Gordon was stunned, but he didn't show it. He had to retain some sense of stoicism even in the face of what seemed to him like unimaginable good fortune. He could finally run home and tell Barbara that they could move out that crapsack of an apartment. They could raise their child away from crime and moral decay. He could get away from Flass and his incurable apathy. But he didn't leap or scream or holler. He didn't even grin. "Thank you, sir. It's an honor."

Later that evening, he and Barbara were sitting by the window watching the sky turn yellow and red. "It's so great that this happened, darling," she said, "the city gets rid of one criminal and my man gets promoted all in one night."

"You and I both know that's not true. If Batman hadn't been there, I would probably be dead now."

She snuggled closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder. "Well, then. Maybe Batman is like my fella's guardian angel. It's like he follows you around everywhere. Maybe he knows an honest man when he sees one."

They sat there for almost an hour, as the sun set and the stars came out. In this light, even the Narrows looked spectacular. And farther away, he could see the brightly-lit Gotham City skyline jutting out of the ground like ancient obelisks, and beyond that, the moonlight shimmered over the surface of Gotham Bay. It was a good night to be alive.

Barbara's head went limp. She had fallen asleep. He gently laid her down on the divan and propped her head up with a pillow, then silently crept into the kitchen. There, on the table was a sizeable stack of mail that awaited his inspection. Bills, bills, and more bills, but what was this?

A small envelope was addressed to the Gordons in an ostentatiously frilly typeset. Moved by curiosity, Gordon took the letter opener and sliced through the paper. Inside, he found an equally gaudy slip of paper, bearing the notice:

"Mr. and Mrs. James Gordon are courteously invited to the First Annual Charity Ball at stately Wayne Manor, this Saturday. Dress: Formal. Sincerely, Mr. Bruce Wayne."

What was this? That rich pretty boy had the gall to invite _him_ to his high society event? Didn't he know about the muggings going on just down the street from his mansion? Didn't he know about the gang wars? The rapes? The white slavers? Why would this snob invite him anyway?

He glanced down at the bottom of the invitation, just below the signature. It looked like old Bruce himself had written a postscript.

"P.S. I'm sorry to spring this invitation on you so suddenly, but I just heard about your fight with the Red Hood on the radio this afternoon. I'm always willing to recognize those noble few who lend a hand in fighting the terrible disease of crime in this fair city."

He couldn't well turn down this invitation, but he was gung-ho on going to it, either. He glanced at Barbara, sleeping away on the divan. She would love this. Maybe he would have to tough it out for her. Maybe this was what being a "hero cop" was about.


	7. Chapter 7: Mr Wayne's Mask

Chapter 7

Gordon gripped the steering wheel tightly, as if something was pulling him out and he didn't want to let go. There it was, right in front of him: stately Wayne Manor all trussed up for Bruce's big gala. He glanced around to see Cadillacs and limousines driving up to the steps while ermine-clad old women hobbled out, pretending that they hadn't aged a day past 25. What was he doing here anyway? He was driving a 1941 Ford sedan that he'd just bought last year because his last one fell apart on him. He was wearing a cheap rented tuxedo that he hadn't even bothered to iron. Barbara was in a dress that barely fit her. They didn't make maternity evening gowns. He was here because that insufferable Bruce Wayne had insisted on it.

"Oh, look Jim! There's Mayor Hill and his adorable little son Jordan! And Harvey Dent! And Matt Hagen! Everybody _famous_ is here!"

He knew she would be excited about this. She had read all of the fan magazines. She knew who was who in Gotham biggest social circles. And she had no clue that he didn't want to be here. He pried his hands away from the steering wheel and got out of the car. He went around to the opposite side and opened Barbara's door for her, knowing that he was probably the closest thing to a butler she would get.

They entered the mansion through its main doors, which led into a spacious ballroom, which had been prepared specifically for the occasion. The largest chandelier Gordon had seen in his life was hanging down over the guests, while an orchestra played some classical piece he couldn't recognize. Everybody was paired up, dancing away in some weird geometric pattern. And Barbara was grinning like a schoolgirl.

"Where's the punch bowl?" he said to her, half-jokingly.

She slapped his wrist playfully, "This isn't your senior prom, Jim! This is high society!"

Maybe if they stood off in a corner, nobody would notice them. That's what Jim had done at his senior prom, anyway. He glanced at a gaggle of ladies situated just next to the dance floor. In between them was a young and handsome dark-haired man. He was wearing a tuxedo that had been hastily buttoned together, with a loose bow tie that hung from his neck. He was holding what appeared to be a glass of champagne in one hand and a gorgeous brunette in the other. So this was their gracious host.

"And so then I told Mr. Thorne where he could shove his corporate expenditures!" The women all laughed. Gordon didn't. He couldn't laugh at the joke when he had only heard the punchline. He tried to turn away from this narcissistic fop, but Barbara wouldn't let him. She clung onto his arm and pulled him toward Mr. Wayne. "Come on, Jim! Let's meet our host."

Gordon acquiesced, "Of course, darling."

Bruce Wayne broke from his hangers-on and approached Gordon, arm extended. "Welcome to my humble estate, Mr. Gordon. I'd heard about you on the radio and couldn't pass up an opportunity to invite you to my gala." There was a slur in his voice, like he was a bit tipsy.

"Charmed, I'm sure, Mr. Wayne. This is my lovely wife Barbara—"

"Of course, of course. Pleasure's all mine. What it like being married to this marvelous hero cop everyone's been going on about?"

She blushed a little, "Oh, Jim doesn't like to think of himself as a hero. He says it was Batman that took out the Red Hood for him."

A middle-aged woman dressed in a mink boa and heavy make-up interrupted them. "Why all this talk about the Batman? He's a criminal like the lot of them. He's shamed the good name of Gotham City for us all!"

Bruce moved closer, his back to the boisterous old woman. "You mustn't mind my dear old Aunt Harriet. She's one of those people who like to pretend they're smarter than they really are."

"Like yourself?"

Barbara was shocked. "Honey, we can't—"

"Exactly like myself."

"But is she the kind of person who would fill a glass with ginger ale and pretend it's champagne?"

Bruce glanced at the glass he was holding in his hand and took a swig of it. "No. That's just me. It's hard to keep up appearances if you're inebriated all of the time."

"More of that aristocratic humor of yours?"

"Of course," he looked at Barbara and winked, "because I don't have such natural manly charms as your husband here, I have to pretend I'm drunk at every social event. Women somehow find me more attractive that way. I suppose it's just a mask I have to wear to get by in this world."

Indeed. Perhaps this Wayne person wasn't all he seemed to be.


	8. Chapter 8: Smiles

Chapter 8

Marilyn stood at the lamppost on the corner of Kane and Miller. She had crossed her arms to preserve her body heat. It was a chilly night, and she was wearing only a brief red dress. It was like a signal to all of the low-lives out there. Here's a whore: come and do her cheap.

She hated it. All of it. It was so humiliating to be used by such terrible men, and even now the creeps and hoods she used to service were running scared. The Batman might catch them. Business was the slowest it had been in months. She was oddly happy that Batman had cleaned the streets, but simultaneously scared stiff of what might happen to her now. Vinnie had already beaten her twice for bringing in less than usual, and the police were starting to crack down on his operation. His cathouse in the Narrows had already been raided, and they were starting to patrol this area again, too. New zero-tolerance policy or something. Trying to one-up the Batman. Trying to prove that they're tough on crime, too.

Just then, she glimpsed a tall, lanky figure walking down the sidewalk. He didn't look right. Purple coat, and suit, and hat. He must have been lost on his way to a costume party or something. This creep couldn't possibly be interested in her, or at least she hoped he wasn't.

But he kept coming, walking toward her with the brim of his hat obscuring his face. Then, in the light of the lamppost, she could see that his face was chalk white, with blood red lips. Makeup? "Hello, darling," he crooned, "what is a nice lady like yourself doing out all alone and in the cold?"

She didn't want to look at him. Something in his voice. He was like a clown pretending to be serious. Fake. But she knew what he was getting at. "Twenty. That's what it'll cost you."

The man feigned surprise. "Oh, my dear! You didn't think—certainly not! I'm a gentleman! A gentleman!" He began to slide his purple coat off of his shoulders and handed it to her, "Here, take this. We wouldn't want you to catch a cold now, would we?"

Marilyn reticently took the coat and draped it over herself. It smelled strange, like someone had dipped it into weird chemicals. She glanced at him again. He was a nut, but he was a nice nut. "Thank you, mister—"

"Kerr," he interjected.

"Thanks, Mr. Kerr." She attempted to flash him a smile, but she couldn't.

"Oh, come now my sweet. Why so glum this fine evening?"

She turned away from him, still clutching the coat around her shoulders. "As if you wouldn't have any idea."

"You know, the world used to get me down, too. But I learned how to deal with that."

She shivered a bit and held the coat tighter. "How? What could I possibly do to help myself get out of here? I'm stuck walking the streets every night, sleeping with men I've never known, all for chump change. And now this crazy Batman is hunting down all my customers," she felt tears begin to well up in her eyes, but she held them back, "I've got no future. I don't even know where I'll sleep tomorrow night."

She felt his hands rest on her shoulders, as if he was trying to comfort her. "Now, now. I bet a nice joke will help you mellow out. See, there once were these two guys in an insane asylum. One day, they'd had enough and decided to escape. Now when they were escaping they had to jump from rooftop to rooftop. One guy did it, no sweat, but the other guy was afraid of heights. Wouldn't jump, you see. So the one guy says to him,

'I got me this flashlight. I can shine the beam over the gap and you can walk over on it.'

'No way,' says the other guy, 'I know you'll turn it off when I'm halfway across!'"

She chuckled a bit. She'd heard it before, maybe a dozen times. But the way this fellow told it, it made her feel just a little bit happier.

"See, I used to be like you. All down and out and oh so _serious._ But then I realized it. Life's just one big, ginormous joke!"

She felt his hands grip the base of her neck. "So maybe we need to put a little smile on your face!"

He twirled her around and she saw him grinning devilishly down at her. His eyes were yellow and piercing, full of madness. She knew it was too late, then. She couldn't scream for help. He would kill her before anyone heard. She couldn't run. His grip was paralyzing. She tried to flail and kick him, but it was like he didn't care. He didn't flinch. Then she saw the glint of a switchblade, and felt his hands probe the inside of her mouth.

"Don't worry, toots! Why so serious?"


	9. Chapter 9: The Sign of the Joker

Chapter 9

Vinnie inhaled on his cigar as smoke wafted throughout the dimly-lit room. He had been smoking more often lately. His nerves were always on end after the Batman had showed up and did in the Red Hood. He'd lost twenty girls when the police raided his cathouse this past week. It was like the entire racket was falling apart. Madeleine, or Marilyn, what was her name? She wasn't helping much either. Always nagging him about having to work nights, how she was scared of the low-lives and rapists running around. Blasted woman didn't know her place!

Lou sat next to him, casually shuffling a deck of cards. "When's Boss supposed to get here? I got a game tonight!"

"Shut it, chrome-dome. You want to be the next Hood?"

Lou's eyes widened and he shook his head nervously.

"Good. Thought so." Vinnie always threatened people with that. Nobody wanted to play the part of the Red Hood. It meant that the cops would shoot you first. Or worse, like what Batman did to that old sap. What was his name again? Of course, they couldn't well use the old Hood trick again if they wanted to keep the cops in the dark. As far as they knew, he was sleeping with the chemically-poisoned fishes.

"What's Boss gonna have us do now?" said Vick, who was sitting opposite Vinnie, puffing on a cigarette, "We can't pull off another job using the Hood gimmick anymore."

"That's exactly why he had us meet here. We gotta come up with something new," said Vinnie, exasperated.

Vinnie glanced out the window and saw a familiar Cadillac's headlights round the corner and park in front of the old warehouse. "He's here, boys."

They waited for what seemed like an hour. Vinnie drummed his fingers against the table impatiently as his cigar burned down to a butt. Cripes. What was taking Boss so long to get in here? Typical. He wanted them to wait for him like always. Thinks he's king of the underground or something.

At last they heard the heavy metal doors creak open, and a strangely familiar voice shout, "Hi-de-ho, gents and germs!"

This wasn't the Boss. It was some clown dressed up like a mobster. He reached inside his coat for his handgun. "All right, clown. You can't just bust in here. Give me one reason why I shouldn't blow your head clean off right now."

The clown stopped for a second, and rifled through his pockets. "Do you have a pencil? I could show you a magic trick."

"Wise guy, eh?" Vinnie was about to pull the trigger when he noticed something odd about the clown's face. It was all white and red, but he recognized it. "Say, ain't you that one guy we had do the Hood job a while back? What was your name?"

The clown nonchalantly strolled over to Lou and snatched a card from his deck, then tossed in onto the table. The Joker.

"What? Is this some kind of show? Where the devil is Boss Charlie?"

The clown cracked a wide grin. "You see, the Boss and I had a little disagreement a while back. We didn't see eye-to-eye on a little matter, so I just took his eyes away from him."

"And his car, too? Right?"

"Well, I had to get here somehow."

"What do you want here? You wanna get paid for the factory job? Forget it. You fell down on the job there. You knew what you was getting in to."

The clown laughed. It was a creepy laugh, starting out loud and then softening, then becoming lower-pitched and higher-pitched chaotically. "No, gentlemen. I wanted to demonstrate a little invention of mine to all of my old _pals._"

He reached inside his purple coat and produced a grenade. Lou and Vick shot up out of their seats and pulled their guns out of their coats. "Put it down, you sicko," said Lou.

The clown pulled out the pin and tossed the grenade onto the table. "Relax, gentlemen. It's a trick grenade, that's all. Now let's all have a good laugh."

The grenade began to emit a green, foul-smelling gas. It wasn't the least bit funny. Why did this guy come in here and think he could pull a fast one on them? What gave him the right to—actually, this was pretty funny. The bit about pulling out the Boss' eyes! Ha! Who wouldn't want to do that?

Vinnie and the others began to laugh, much like the clown had before. It became uncontrollable. They fell on the floor, bent over double, sides splitting in pain. But they couldn't stop laughing.

The clown grimaced and began to laugh on his own, "Sometimes I just _kill_ myself!"


	10. Chapter 10: Madness Comes Home

Chapter 10

Gordon gagged when he saw the girl's corpse lying prone underneath the streetlight. It wasn't that he hadn't ever seen a dead body before; he'd seen plenty of them during the war, most of them mutilated even more than this poor thing had been, but the savagery of it all made him want to lose his lunch.

Her throat had been slit and ripped out, her eyes slashed vertically, and her mouth cut from ear to ear. Her hair and nose were smeared with blood. Somebody had made her out to be his sick little version of a circus clown.

"Home-made justice, served rare," said Flass, who was bent over examining the body. He and Gordon hadn't been partners since he was promoted, but he'd shown up to this crime scene along with the rest of the department. "No doubt that Bat guy's involved. No question about it."

"What makes you say that?" As brutal as the Batman was with criminals, he wasn't a killer. Gordon knew that much for certain. He'd beaten rapists and murderers to within an inch of death before trussing them up like Christmas presents and leaving them for the police to find.

"A maniac kills like a maniac. Guy sees a street-walker and takes her down for disrupting society's order all. Does it all messy-like as a warning to the other hookers. It's getting worse, Gordy. Pretty soon he'll be taking down jaywalkers like this."

"But why the clown motif, Flass? It ain't Batman's M.O."

Lieutenant Perry, a younger, more innocent officer, fought back rage and disgust and he dipped his gloved hands into a pool of blood near the body to retrieve a small, flat object. "Captain Gordon, you might want to see this."

Gordon took the blooded object from the Lieutenant and perused it closely. It was a common playing card, half-soaked with blood, bearing the clownish symbol of a Joker.

He handed the card to Flass. "Make of that what you will. I say we've got a new killer on our hands, and he isn't Batman."

Flass cursed under his breath and then said, "You let one psycho run the city and it breeds more psychos. Batman's still an accessory."

"That would be tough to prove, Flass."

Later that night, police discovered the bodies of four mob bosses. One had been disfigured in a similar fashion to the first victim, while the other three appeared to have been killed together, by an unknown chemical compound. Each victim was found with a Joker playing card on his person.

Gordon's heart sank as he read the headlines the following morning. The Batman might have been a help against muggers and hoods, but this Joker maniac might be something else.

The coffee was warmer today. Even though Barbara was getting closer and closer to her time, she got up early and warmed the coffee just for him. His child couldn't grow up in a city like this, with madmen on the loose.

He remembered the war. It was a bedlam, fire and smoke and blood and shells and screams and pain. But he knew why he was there, two and a half years ago. He was fighting for sanity, so that the people could have normalcy once again, so that the bombings and pillaging and invasions would all stop. He had become a cop for the same reason. Everybody came home and couldn't be normal. They were too used to war, too used to chaos, too used to insanity. He had protected Gotham's streets before the war, but after—it seemed as though the war had never ended. It had just come home.


	11. Chapter 11: Guardian Angel

Chapter 11

Gordon lay awake in his bed, having just been woken by a surreptitious tapping on the window. He shot up at the sound, quickly scanning the bedroom for any signs of an intruder. The image of that poor girl on the street that previous night flashed through his mind. For just a moment, he became panicked, as if Barbara were that girl, as if the Joker had sliced her, too. His heart raced, until he glanced at the figure of his wife sleeping beside him, so undisturbed by that bump in the night.

He sat there for a minute. Suddenly, the air in the room had begun to chill. Didn't he close the windows? Apparently not. They were open just a crack. Gordon forced himself onto his feet and threw on his robe and glasses, then slinked across his bedroom toward the window. He reached to close it, but didn't. What time was it? He glanced at the clock hanging over the bedpost. 2:13 A.M. Too early to get up. But he couldn't go back to sleep now. Once he got up, he was too awake to sleep again. It had always plagued him, but it made him a natural night owl, perfect for the force. He pulled a packet of cigarettes from the outer pocket of his robe. Maybe a smoke would help calm his nerves. Now where was that matchbox?

He heard the tapping again. They were on the third story, and there weren't any trees by the window. He tensed again. He needed that smoke. He fumbled toward the kitchen and grabbed a match laying by the stove, struck it and lit his cigarette. Then the tapping again.

He spun around and glanced at the window, open, with the drapes billowing in the dense night air. The tapping was louder now, faster. He inhaled as he cautiously approached the window. There was nothing outside, just an empty alleyway and a fire escape. He leaned on the windowsill and exhaled hugely. The puffs of smoke drifted outside and over the street like rainclouds over a desert. He glanced inside for a second. 2:16 A.M. It was going to be a long night.

He turned to the window to puff again, and then _he_ was there. The shadowy figure sat crouched over the fire escape, his hollow eyes staring unflinchingly into Gordon's. "Evening, Jim."

Gordon gave a muffled yelp and dropped the cigarette. "What are you doing here?"

"You've seen why. Last night under the lamppost at Kane and Miller."

"What? Don't tell me _you_ had something to do with that?"

"Of course not. I don't kill people. Not my style."

"Thought that."

"But you have access to the evidence collected at the crime scene."

"You mean we beat you to this one?"

"Just the girl. I looked over the bosses just before you got there. I took a sample of the chemicals from the trick grenade. I still can't identify it."

"You mean even you can't figure out who this Joker is?"

"It doesn't matter who he is. I can't let him do this again."

Gordon lowered his head to pull another cigarette out of his pocket. "Well, the body's at the morgue now. All locked up and—"

He glanced up at where Batman had been. He wasn't there anymore. He had vanished like the living shadow he was. Why had he been here, anyway? He knew even less than the police. How could Gordon help him? Maybe he was just checking up on him. What was that Barbara had said? Maybe he was like Jim's guardian angel. Maybe he was the guardian angel for the whole city, checking up to make sure that the devil wasn't at their door.


	12. Chapter 12: Don't Touch That Dial

Chapter 12

Louisa Johnson was sitting in her rocking chair, working diligently on a sweater for her baby grandson. It was a bright Sunday afternoon, so she had opened the windows to let some light in. But that didn't stop her husband Leroy from settling comfortably in his easy chair and sleeping the day away.

Her seventy-two-year-old fingers couldn't crochet lie they used to, but this sweater had to be made, just like the other ones she had made for her six grandchildren. It also helped keep her mind off of those dreadful murders that had happened that past week. She had turned off the radio when news like that came over the bulletin. Someone her age just didn't need stress like that.

But she didn't have to worry about bad news this Sunday. The radio stations only played the finest classical melodies today, partly out of reverence and partly because their listeners had been fed up with that jazz and swing filth that had filled up the airwaves nowadays. Louisa couldn't help but think that folks forgot how to write good music when the century rolled around. Whatever happened to fine composers?

She paused from her crochet for just a second, listening intensely to the music. The smell of freshly-baked apple pie radiated from the kitchen. Perhaps it was time to take it out of the oven.

But just as she was about to get up, the music faded, and the radio crackled. Interference? Then, suddenly, a new voice spoke over the airwaves. It couldn't be the regular announcer. Louisa knew his voice too well. This voice was loud and boisterous, and crazy.

"Good afternoon, ladies and germs of Gotham City! I'm interrupting this program for no other reason than that I felt like it. For all of you who wanted to listen to this fuddy-duddy, that's just too bad!"

What was this? Some kind of prank? A joke? The voice broke into a sharp and grating laughing fit, before calming down and saying,

"Sorry. Sometimes I just kill myself, especially when I think about killing all of you. But that's not the point of this broadcast. I am sure that most of you are familiar with the foppish millionaire Henry Claridge. Well, tonight, he _dies!_" Laughter again, "At precisely 12 o'clock midnight, Henry Claridge will be dead, and the police will not find his killer. If they want to play with the Joker, they'll have to be prepared to be dealt from the bottom of the deck!"

Static again, then came music, as if nothing had happened. Leroy jolted upward from his chair and exclaimed, "What the devil was that, Louisa?"

"Pay no attention to it, dearie. A prank, probably. Like that man who tried to fool everyone with that story about Mars a few years ago. I'd ignore it."


	13. Chapter 13: The Hour of Reckoning

Chapter 13

The clock above Henry Claridge's mantelpiece had its hands firmly pointing toward 11:55 P.M. Five minutes until the moment of reckoning.

Claridge paced nervously in front of his fireplace, twirling his thumbs like a schoolboy anxious to get a math exam behind him. He stopped and began to nibble on his nails. It was an old habit he had tried to suppress ever since he had entered the business world, but that mattered little now. The Joker's macabre prophecy had his dead as a doornail in five short minutes.

He glanced at the mantelpiece again. 11:56 P.M. What had he done to deserve this? He was an honest businessman. Maybe this was some disgruntled employee trying to get back at him, trying to scare him into hiring him back. Who had he fired recently? That old fellow at the chemical plant, the downstairs maid, the gardener, none of them could want his head for that, could they?

Or maybe this was karma. Some higher power must have sentenced him to die for his lifetime of vice. Sure, he'd been a party boy in his youth, but who hadn't? It was the Roaring Twenties! Why not live life to the fullest? He'd given his life to the community after that. When the market went south, he started that plant to give Gotham's people jobs. Sure, it had led to unparalleled pollution of the Gotham River, but only the harshest liberals cared about that. Maybe it was because he had cheated his partners out of a good deal, taken an extra cut of the profits. No, nonsense! Old Wilde and Cobblepot were far richer than he. They could stand to lose a little.

11:58 P.M. Two minutes of life left. He peered out the spacious windows in his parlor. Outside, the police had made a perimeter around the grounds. They had barricaded him inside his parlor. They couldn't take chances about an assassin getting through. The moon was floating just above the bay, obscured by diaphanous clouds. Below it he could see the shapes of boats crossing the harbor, and the stalwart lighthouse shining down on the water. It would have been a pleasant scene any other night but tonight.

11:59 P.M. One minute. How was it going to happen? Was some gunman going to break through the police lines and kill him with a clean shot to the head? Was a bomb going to come crashing down through the roof and explode all of them? Or was he just going to die?

It was silent. He could hear the hand on the antique clock creak toward those brass roman numerals on the top of the clock face. XII, twelve. Midnight. Death. Suddenly, the chimes rang once, then twice, twelve times. Each chime echoed through his spacious parlor. They were his death knoll.

He waited, paralyzed with fear until the reverberations ceased. 12:00 A.M. Midnight, and he was still alive. He was alive! He couldn't believe it! He shouted at the tops of his lungs, "It's midnight and I'm still alive! Glory hallelujah! Ha ha ha ha!"

He began to laugh. And laugh. He could feel his heart pounding faster, his pulse racing, his muscles tensing. No! No, this couldn't be! He couldn't have a heart attack now, could he? He felt his cheeks tighten into a smile, and his limbs spasm.

"Ha ha ha! Help me! Ha ha ha! I'm—dying! Help me! I can't—stop—laughing! Can anyone hear me? Help! Help!"

He collapsed onto the floor in a fit. He needed only reach the door. The police could help him! But he couldn't move. "_Help! Help me!_"

He felt his eyes swell and begin to pop out of their sockets. Then he couldn't feel his heart anymore, then his lungs, and then everything went dark.

It was 12:00 A.M., and Henry Claridge was dead.


	14. Chapter 14: Clark's New Assignment

Chapter 14

The majestic Hall of Justice towered over the bustling city streets. It was a monument to a glorious new age in heroism. It signified to all outsiders that the indomitable Justice League would be ever-watchful and ever-vigilant in protecting the citizens of earth.

But to the small and insignificant figure of Clark Kent, it was a brotherhood. It was a gathering of people who, like himself, who shared a common interest in heroism and justice. He couldn't imagine what his life would be like if he had to save the world all on his own as Superman.

Clark entered the Hall under its arched doorframes, dressed in his emblematic red and blue Superman costume. In these hallowed walls, he and his fellow crime fighters shared no secrets. Everyone in the brotherhood knew that he was Clark Kent, and he knew their secret identities as well. That man in the red shirt, purple cape, and green mask that just passed him? Alan Scott, Green Lantern. That supersonic red and yellow blur that no normal human could possibly notice? Jay Garrick, the Flash. And that impossibly beautiful woman who was walking up to him? She didn't have one. She was Diana, the Wonder Woman.

She was an Amazon, and never got used to more modern forms of dress. Since she couldn't go around in a toga all the time, she seemed more comfortable in her costume, a suitably American star-spangled skirt with a golden eagle breastplate. Behind her was a nondescript man in a trench coat, whose only distinguishing feature seemed to be his perpetually red pupils.

"Afternoon Diana, J'onn," said Clark amicably, extending his hand.

Diana didn't take it. Maybe it was an insult among the Amazons? Gah! All that research into alien starfish cultures and he still couldn't get the protocol down for greeting an Amazon princess. Being Superman wasn't as easy as the newspapers made it sound.

The man behind Wonder Woman began to shift. First, his skin turned green, and his forehead grew more prominent. His eyes lost their whites, and became totally red. Finally, the outer layer of human clothing shifted into a blue cape and red chest piece. The Martian Manhunter had shed his human disguise.

"Greetings, Superman," he said. He was more comfortable addressing members of the League by their stage names, by their disguises. Clark couldn't see the reason behind it. Perhaps it was something of a formality.

Diana still hadn't spoken. Were Amazons always so standoffish? Maybe that's why there weren't any men on that island of theirs.

"We called you here to discuss a special assignment, Superman," she said at last, with something of a harsh unfamiliarity in her voice, "One that concerns a potential new member in our League."

The Manhunter continued, "Perhaps you have heard of the mysterious Batman presently haunting Gotham City?"

"Of course I have. I'm a reporter after all!" He said it as if they needed to be reminded; as if they couldn't see that, past the cape and tights, he really was Clark Kent, reporter for a major metropolitan newspaper.

"Indeed," said Diana, "police reports of his activities indicate a major propensity for detective work, a department in which the League is sorely lacking at the present."

"Does he have any powers? Is he one of our kind?"

"That question is irrelevant, Superman," said the Manhunter, "this League had, among its founding members, the Crimson Avenger and the Sandman, who were merely human detectives. Since their retirement, however, the League membership has consisted solely of super-powered heroes, for whom stealth and detective work does not come naturally."

"So why do you want me to go to Gotham City and recruit this Batman? We don't even know who he is."

"That is precisely why we have selected you, Superman," said Diana, "because you are the only one of us with vision powers. You can see through Batman's mask."

Clark felt uneasy. He had never used his vision powers to pry for someone's secrets, and since he knew that keeping up a façade was one of the most difficult facets of being a superhero, it seemed immoral to uncover someone's identity with his powers.

"Why not send J'onn? He can read minds, right?"

"My telepathic abilities can be easily blocked by someone of a strong mind. And my weakness to fire makes me vulnerable to the most mundane of human weaponry: the matchbox. You, Superman, can only be harmed by the rarest of extraterrestrial elements. If the Batman were to consider you a threat, you could easily subdue him."

Diana turned from Clark, and walked away without even saying good-bye. Apparently, she had said all she had to say. The Manhunter shook Clark's hand and wished him good luck before leaving. How ironic it was, that two aliens would be better-versed in human customs than an Amazon.

Clark made his way out of the Hall before leaping into the air, feeling the rush of the wind against him, his cape billowing behind him. Now which way was Gotham City again?


	15. Chapter 15: Tangled Web

Chapter 15

It was 11:52 P.M., and Gordon was sitting in a slump on the stoop of his apartment building, a cigarette butt in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. It wasn't the healthiest way to spend the night, but with all this chaos it was his only method of escape. The Joker had killed six people, each in a wildly different way. And it was as if this most recent victim's demise was just to stump the police. Henry Claridge had been barricaded inside his own parlor, and there wasn't any trace of the Joker's laughing gas anywhere. He just fell over and died with a smile on his face just because the Joker had said he would.

Forensic specialists were still trying to determine exactly what killed him, running blood tests and all that science stuff he didn't give a crap about. It didn't matter _how_ the maniac did it, it was _why._ Serial killers usually followed a pattern, this guy didn't. They usually had a distinctive M.O. This guy didn't. If he hadn't gone and announced Claridge's murder to the world, they would still be stumped as to who did it. It was as if he _wanted_ to be known. He left his calling card at each of his first murders, after all. He was killing people for show; just because he could.

And he was supposed to be cleaning up this town! Barbara was counting on him to take care of their future family, and he was screwing it all up by letting this freak run loose. He glanced at the grimy, rodent-infested dumpsters across the alleyway from him. He bet those rats didn't have to worry about all of this. They lived their short lives in complete bliss, wallowing in filth, eating, mating, and dying. Why did humans have to care so much? Why did they have to have responsibilities?

He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled on his cigarette. When he opened his eyes, he saw a familiar cloaked and masked figure crouched over him. The sight gave him a start, as he erupted into a smoky coughing fit.

"Evening, Gordon," said Batman.

"Would you quit doing that?"

"It's what I do. Can't help it if you flinch easily."

"Very funny."

"Actually, it's not." Batman opened a pouch on his belt and drew out a corked vial full of greenish liquid. "Have your forensics people run tests on this. I've run some of my own, and don't like what I see."

"What's that?" Gordon lifted the bottle to his lips and took a quick gulp.

"The main components of the laughing gas were identical to the compounds produced in the Ace Chemical Plant. There's nowhere else in the state that produces these exact chemicals in these quantities. The nearest is in California, and unless our killer has been running coast-to-coast in the weeks preceding his crimes, at least some connection to the plant is necessary."

"What's that prove? So he swiped some green goo and made gas with it. We're not any closer than we were before."

Batman paused for a moment, and then continued, "I'm sure you're aware of Henry Claridge's much-publicized founding of the Ace Chemical Plant in the early 1930's?"

"You don't mean—"

"I do. The four mob leaders murdered also had connections to the Red Hood robberies, the final of which used the Ace Chemical Plant as a launching point."

"You can't be serious. I saw that Hood go down myself. He fell into the vat and that was the end of it."

"Was the body ever recovered?"

"No, but that's expected. The tanks drained into the river, after all."

Batman opened up another pouch and produced several strands of hair. "I found these on the prostitute's body at the morgue. Solid green. They matched the compounds found in the gas and in the vats."

"Are you saying that he fell into the vat, somehow survived being flushed into the river, and had his hair and face get all messed up and went on a killing spree?"

"We're not dealing with a rational mind here. He may be killing these people in some twisted form of revenge, or he might not be. We can't predict his next victims in complete certainty, but I'd keep an eye on Jay Wilde and Oswald Cobblepot if I were you."

And then the Batman was gone so fast that Gordon wasn't even sure he had blinked in time to see him go. Criminy. This was just one big tangled and confused web, one he didn't want anything to do with but had to anyway.

Gordon took another sip from the bottle as he noticed something red streak across the night sky.


	16. Chapter 16: I Did My Homework

Chapter 16

Clark soared high over the Gotham skyline. How different it was from Metropolis! His home town's shining skyscrapers and arches would have looked drastically out of place next to these boxy, angular buildings. If Metropolis was the city of tomorrow, then this was the city of a yesterday nobody wanted to remember.

He listened closely. He could hear the sounds of tires screeching in the streets, of gunshots, of women screaming, of fists pounding against flesh, of fireplaces crackling in the night, of dogs barking, of babies crying, of drunkards laughing, but he couldn't hear the Batman.

What a pitiful scene. There was only so much crime one man could fight, even if he was Superman. He heard the shrill cries of a cat caught in a tree and quickly dove down to its source. It was in an old maple tree in someone's dilapidated back yard. The little calico shrank from him as he flew up next to it.

"There there little kitty cat, I'll get you down from here." He took the cat in his arms and planted it safely on the ground. It quickly bolted away in fear. It wasn't much, but some little girl wasn't going to be missing her cat the next morning.

He flew skyward again and focused his telescopic vision, scanning the city for any sign of the Batman. He knew what he looked like. Black cape, cowl, pointed ears. Now where could he be? He apparently wasn't in this neighborhood. Maybe the next one. No. Clark scanned each building using his heightened speed and reflexes, until he finally saw something that looked like Batman hopping across the rooftops in the Narrows. Better make it before he got away!

Clark zoomed over the Gotham Bay over the slums and alleyways below him before finally reaching the rooftop to which the Batman was leaping. He paused and steadied himself in a dignified, heroic pose. That's it. Arms crossed. Make sure the cape is billowing impressively. But don't let the arms cover the big S. He had to know who he was, after all.

"Greetings to you, Batman. I am Superman, the Last Son of Krypton, and representative of the venerable Justice League of America," he paused for a moment. He had to let it sink in. he had to awe him.

But Batman wasn't awed. He didn't even look Clark in the face. It was like he was sizing him up. "You're going to have to do a better job than that if you want to impress me, Clark."

What was that? He hadn't let his secret slip, had he? No. He couldn't let him get into his head. Pretend he's wrong. Bluff. "I'm sorry, but you're mistaken, Batman. My real name is Kal-El. Clark Kent is a friend of mine."

"Cut the show, blue boy. You're the worst master of disguise I've ever seen. Clark Kent and Superman, despite being close friends, are never seen in the same place at the same time. Both showed up in Metropolis in 1938. Both are about 6 feet tall, white, and with black hair. Both have the exact same face. The glasses weren't fooling anyone, Clark. Or maybe everyone in Metropolis is as dumb as that reporter girlfriend of yours?"

"How did you know about me and Lois?" Clark barked indignantly.

"I know everything about you, Clark. I've done my homework on everybody in your so-called Justice League." There was a bit of a smirk on Batman's face. He was obviously enjoying this.

That settled it. Nobody ever had the gall to humiliate Superman so brazenly, without any kind of provocation. He focused his eyes on Batman's mask. Maybe he could see who was insulting him from behind this disguise!

But he saw nothing. Nothing. His vision powers hadn't failed him like this before. Batman wasn't wearing lead over his face. What else could it be? No—no, it couldn't be—

Batman opened a pouch on his belt and with a swift and deliberate motion produced a finger-sized glowing green rock. "I told you I did my homework," he quipped, "it's not enough to kill you, but it will sure give you a bad day."

"But nobody knows my weakness, nobody!"

"_I do._ Now do me a favor and ditch the tights. I don't need any help from you now. A reporter boy like you should know what kind of criminal I'm after. This isn't a megalomaniac mad scientist with a death beam. The sociopath I'm after can't be bargained with. He can't be persuaded to turn from his evil ways and walk the straight and narrow. This is my town, Clark, and you'd better act like it."

With that, Batman turned and leaped from the rooftop, his voluminous cape trailing behind him like a shadow.


	17. Chapter 17: Delusion

Chapter 17

Barbara woke up to the sound of cars screeching in the streets outside. Their horns were like her alarm clock. She lay there in the bed for a moment, listening to the peculiar music of the city. The trains off in the distance moved at a rhythmic pace, acting like the baseline to a chaotic and cacophonic melody of wailing sirens and blaring horns. And just underneath it all was the cooing of a little pigeon making its nest on the fire escape outside.

The smell of the apartment was familiar. Try as she might, she couldn't get the smell of rotten eggs out of the kitchen rug, or the oddly comforting aroma of cigarette smoke out of the sofa. She had told Jim not to smoke in the house. Lord knew he tried. She glanced over at his side of the bed. Empty. It had been almost every day since that Batman showed up. But the sheets on his side today hadn't even been slept in. They were as neat and pressed as she had ironed them yesterday.

She couldn't blame him for it. That terrible clown killer had been murdering victim after victim, and it was up to good cops like her husband to lay down the law. She eased herself out of bed, clutching her swollen belly. He would need to lay down the law soon, if their child was to grow up in peace.

She lurched over to the window and threw open the drapes. Sunlight always brightened her up. It was something about its life-giving warmth that comforted her, even in terrible times like this. What time was it? She glanced at the clock. 7:30 A.M. She'd let herself sleep in this morning. She couldn't have slept in any later. There were too many chores to do, and every good wife kept an orderly household. It was what her mother always said to her. Keep a little routine, and keep your sanity.

She was disappointed that she couldn't fix breakfast for Jim this morning. It wasn't healthy to just eat donuts from the diner all the time. She switched on the radio as she went to heat the stove. It was soft jazz music. She didn't recognize who sang it, but she left it on nevertheless. It was always nice to have a bit of background music as she fixed breakfast.

She cracked two eggs over a hot skillet and listened to them crackle. It was surprisingly harmonious with the melodic jazz playing from the radio. She closed her eyes for an instant and remembered that blissful moment two years ago, when Jim had just come back from the war. They had spent all night dancing. She had never wanted to let him go. How wonderful it had been! Then, when everyone had left, they were the only ones left in that dance hall, dancing away to some imaginary music of their own. Then he had knelt and held up a ring, and she had been so awestruck and—

There was static over the radio. No, hadn't that happened the last time that—no, it was just interference; just a coincidence. The music stopped, and that _voice_ came over the airwaves again. It was that same voice she and Jim had heard two days ago.

"Good morning Gotham City! The forecast for this fine Tuesday is sunny with a slight chance of murder. And as we know, old weatherman Joker is never wrong! I'm sure you all read about poor old Henry dying like a dog at midnight on Sunday. I called it, folks! I'd say I'm a regular Nostradamus! He ha ha!"

Barbara held one hand over her heart, as if to shield it from that penetrating voice. She gripped the other tightly around the handle of the skillet, as if to prepare herself to strike whatever ghoul would materialize out of that radio. The skillet was hot, but she didn't care. She was too paralyzed with fear to notice the pain.

"Now then, we're seeing some smiles blowing the way of Mr. Jay Wilde, who, if my calculations are correct, will be getting some nasty death by midnight tonight. But fear not, Gothamites, for we'll be seeing more of that beautiful sunshine all through Thursday, with a little rain on Friday, and some fog on Saturday. This is W-JKR radio in Gotham City. Have a nice day!"

And he was gone again. Barbara became suddenly aware of the burning sensation in her hand now, of the tears welling up in her eyes, of her total and complete helplessness. She let go of the skillet and cried, partly out of pain, partly out of despair. No matter how much she believed in Jim, she knew that this was too much for him. She knew that everything was hopeless. She couldn't keep up this Pollyanna façade, no matter how much it protected her from the reality. The city was going down the tubes, and she couldn't do anything about it.


	18. Chapter 18: The Face of the Devil

Chapter 18

Jay Wilde's parlor wasn't as immaculate or ostentatious as Gordon had expected it to be. A strange assortment of books and papers lay strewn about on the floor, and an overcoat unceremoniously hung from a suit of armor. The police were in the room this time; to make sure that the Joker didn't pull any of his trickery again. There was no way they could have saved Henry Claridge. He had been fed the poison twenty-four hours earlier. Gordon had just seen the chemical results. Some kind of time-released toxin. But Mr. Wilde here wouldn't be going down that way. They had monitored his food intake since the radio announcement.

"You don't have to worry about me, officers. I only eat organic vegetables prepared by my personal chef. There's positively no way that the joker could have slipped anything into my meals."

Organic. Cripes. What an eccentric. "It's just to be safe, Mr. Wilde," Gordon assured him, "you've made it this far without eating, haven't you?"

"I am still very much perturbed that the police have seen fit to deny me a basic human necessity. There is no way the Joker could get to me. I am completely and utterly safe."

The grandiose grandfather clock struck twelve, and all was silent for a moment. It looked as if Jay Wilde had been right. They waited another moment, and no unseen threat had seen fit to penetrate their cordon. Then, there was a hissing.

Gordon cursed to himself. He must have gotten something in the ventilation system. Noxious green gas began to pour in from the ceiling.

"Quick, everybody! Get you masks on!" Gordon hastily barked as he attached his own mask. But it was too late for Mr. Wilde. He fell over, stiff as a corpse, but not dead. His eyes were bulging and bloodshot, his face contorted in a terrible grin, but he was not dead. What was this new trick? Did Joker want to torture his victim before killing him? Most of the police force had succumbed to the gas, too. Idiots. Why didn't they listen to him? Were they going to die too, just for being too slow?

Then he heard a muffled laugh from behind. He spun around to see the suit of armor toss of the overcoat and brandish its pike. No! Not him!

The laughing continued. The armor rushed forward, tumbling through the wall of shocked and paralyzed policemen before standing over Wilde's rigid body. Gordon couldn't let this happen. Here was their target, the notorious Joker. No way was he going to escape now.

Gordon hurtled toward the Joker, grasping him around the waist and pulling his armor-plated body down to the floor. It landed with a terrific clang, as Gordon grappled to pull off its helmet.

"Peek-a-boo!" cried the Joker.

Gordon was almost thrown back, so shocked was he at the face before him. It was blanched pale white, with lips that might as well been rouged with blood. Its wavy green hair made it seem otherworldly, supernatural. It was like staring the devil in the face.

Suddenly, he felt the gas mask rip away from his face. "Don't you want to smell some of my fabulous new perfume? _Eau de Joquer_, I call it. Ha ha he!"

No, don't breathe in! But it was futile. Gordon felt his body go rigid and drop to the floor. But he wasn't unconscious. He would be awake to see the crime. Joker brandished the pike again and nonchalantly stabbed it into Wilde's helpless body before dashing away and crashing through a window, eluding capture once again.


	19. Chapter 19: Ruffled Feathers

Chapter 19

The clock in Oswald Cobblepot's atrium struck twelve, sending its gear spinning in wild patterns as a golden cuckoo sang twelve times. So that old bird Wilde was dead now. Of course, Oswald didn't know that for sure, but he could feel it. Both his old business partners were six feet under, and good riddance to them both.

Oswald's atrium was of his own design, with glass skylights covering the ceiling, and enormous glass doors surrounding the room. It looked like an enormous bird cage from the outside, and it was fitting. He loved birds more than people. Birds were the pinnacle of nature's wonders. Even in their diversity, each bird shared a common pattern: efficiency and grace. Had not man envied the birds before he learned to fly? Had he not marveled at their effortless flight, how they dove and soared across the sky? Man was a terrible and violent creature. He didn't appreciate his world, or anyone who wasn't like him.

Oswald remembered how they used to mock him. He was fat. He had a big nose. He always hid himself under an umbrella. And mother always smothered him. Mother. Curse her! She would never let him be a man. He was always her little boy. He didn't cry at her funeral. She would have wanted him to, but he didn't. He didn't miss her. Neither did he miss his old associates. In fact, he felt a bit of admiration for this Joker character. So brazenly flaunting the laws of men, and getting rid of those scumbags all the while. He made murder seem like a raucous vaudeville number. If only old Oswald could be so bold!

He paused for a moment to gander at a group of pigeons perched just outside his atrium. They were close, snug in that little nest of theirs. They were something he would never be. He would always be alone, and he liked it that way. Thunder grumbled in the distance as he heard the first raindrops begin to hit the glass.

It was silent for another moment. Not even the owls were bothering to hoot. What a shame. He put on his monocle and headed for a bookshelf. Something light would be suitable tonight. _Ornithology, Waterfowl of North America, Birds of the Tropics_, no, he had read these all too recently. Ah! Here it was: a book of poetry. He waddled over to his easy chair and turned on his electric lamp. Ah, his favorite: Alfred, Lord Tennyson's "The Eagle."

_He clasps the crag with crooked hands—_

He heard one of his parakeets begin squawking in another room. It was probably nothing. He kept reading.

_Close to the sun in lonely lands,_

_Ringed with the azure world he stands._

The squawking continued. Not just the parakeets, but the macaws and toucans, too. What could have startled them so?

_The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;_

_He watches from his mountain walls,_

_And like a thunderbolt he falls._

Crash. He saw lightning streak across the sky as fragments of glass spun down through the air, and a dark and malevolent figure dove out of the skylight straight for him. Oswald instinctively reached for a weapon, but there wasn't one around. He felt the side of the chair and grasped the handle of an umbrella. He hastily opened it, as if he hoped that it would shield him. No use.

"Good evening, Mr. Cobblepot. I need to talk to you."

"What business does the Batman have with me? You're not the police. I don't have to talk to you."

"Oh, of course not. Not _legally,_ anyway."

Oswald lowered the umbrella and stared Batman in the face, sneering. "I don't talk to criminals, Batman. I could call the police right now and have you arrested for destruction of private property, breaking and entering, harassment. I have the moral high ground here, Batty Man!"

"Certainly. But I have this." Batman held up a clenched fist, holding a yellow-and-blue parrot in a death grip.

No! Not Sweet Kristina! He had loved Kristina since he was a child. She was his favorite old bird, his most prized possession. But he couldn't let Batman get to him.

"What do plan on doing with that bird, Batman? It's old, and I have plenty others. You'll need more than that to break my will."

"What did you plan on doing with that umbrella, _Penguin?_"

His words were like ice. Nobody had called him that in years. It was a childish insult, but it hurt somewhere deep, somewhere secret. "Don't _ever_ call me that!"

Batman squeezed on the parrot's neck. He heard her cry out, "Penguin, penguin!" in a weak, stifled voice.

"All right, all right! I'll talk!"

Batman released his fist, and Kristina fluttered away to the top of the bookshelf. He lunged forward at Oswald and grabbed his shirt collar. "I thought you would. What do you know about Henry Claridge and Jay Wilde?"

"Uh, my old business partners. Haven't seen them in years. Dead now, aren't they?"

"Good Penguin, that was the right answer." Batman cracked something of a half-smile, a sardonic sign that he was enjoying this.

"But I did not kill them, Mr. Batman. You should know as well as I that the Joker did that. He even took credit on the radio himself!"

"But you would have every reason to _want_ them dead, wouldn't you? The Ace deal wasn't the best for you, and Claridge was diverting the profits from it into his private Swiss bank account. And you're the one with the most to gain. After they're gone, you could close down that plant for good and recuperate your losses."

'But why would I hire someone like the Joker to do my dirty work? He'd probably kill me first, like he did those mobsters. You're interrogating the wrong man!"

Batman released the collar and Oswald tumbled to the ground. "And what makes you so certain that it's me?" barked Oswald, "For all the time you wasted invading my private property, you could have been preventing a real murder. Joker said that Jay Wilde would die tonight, and here you are, quarter past midnight, interrogating and innocent man! If you wanted to protect the victim, you should have been on guard instead of on the hunt!"

Batman was silent. He merely reached for a tool on his belt, fired it upwards, and was gone in a flash. Such pretentiousness.


	20. Chapter 20: Gordon's Lucky Charm

Chapter 20

Barbara rushed through the hospital's whitewashed hallways, clad only in her nightgown and slippers. Modesty was of secondary concern to her husband's safety. She'd received the phone call just minutes before. Jim had narrowly survived an attack by the Joker, and was in a state of paralysis. Was he awake? Was he alive? She didn't know, but she ran like the devil anyway.

"Let me through! Let me through!" she dashed past stunned doctors and nurses patrolling the hallways, past patients on gurneys and in wheelchairs. What room was it again? 413. Room 413. Just down this corridor, turn a right, and there it should be—

Suddenly, a burly doctor planted himself in front of her, grabbing her shoulders in order to steady her. "Ma'am! Ma'am, I'm sorry. We can't let you through."

"Why not? My husband is in there! He needs me! He's in shock!"

"Ma'am, he's too paralyzed right now to speak. We're trying to isolate the toxin and synthesize and antidote. But now, you'll have to wait." The doctor's voice was calm and reassuring, but sounded tepid and scripted, as if he had said this a million times before to a million other cops' wives.

Wait. Of course she would have to wait. Why hadn't she bothered to put anything on? It was embarrassing. Here she was, a four-month pregnant housewife running to the hospital without even having the decency to wrap a robe around herself. She just hoped that nobody would stare. She looked quite ridiculous in her nightgown.

And so she waited. It was 4:07 A.M. when the doctor finally let her inside. Gordon was lying in the bed, stiff as a corpse, but he was able to move his head just enough to see his wife running at him with her arms outstretched.

"B-b-Barbara—"

She collapsed onto the side of the bed, weeping. She grasped his hand. It was warm, but rigid. The paralysis must not have worn off entirely.

"You're alive, Jim! Thank God you're alive!"

"I—not the only one." His lips and tongue could move, but his jaw was apparently still too rigid to talk for long.

"I know, Jim. I know. He could have killed you all, but he didn't. You were all lucky."

"But he—away. Got away." Jim wasn't satisfied that he had escaped with his life. There was disappointment in his voice. She never liked to hear that.

"Let's not think about that, Jim. Let's think about now. About us. About the baby. About how we're going to make it through all of this."

Jim's eyes dropped down to her level. He didn't say it, but she knew that he wanted to feel the baby. Barbara lifted his hand and placed it on her stomach. Instantly, he sighed longingly. Peace. "That's it. That's daddy," she mumbled, as if to talk to the child inside her.

"It's my—lucky charm. I can't die with family on the way."

"Maybe it is, Jim. Maybe a little luck is all we've got."

"I—love—you two."


	21. Chapter 21: Proposition

Chapter 21

It was noon, the next day, and Gordon was just waking up. What had happened? He remembered something involving Joker, something with Barbara. He reached for his glasses on the nightstand, when he realized that this wasn't his bedroom. Then a chill ran across him like an air conditioner on a cool day. The images flashed by in his mind, the gas, the murder, and that _face._ Oh, that _face!_ But he was breathing, that was for certain. And he was in a hospital room. Something must have happened to his body. Ah yes! He had been lucky, the gas only paralyzed him. And then Barbara had come and he felt the baby—

"Ah, Jim! Glad to see you're awake!" Some professional-looking doctor he didn't recognize was talking to him, jotting down notes on a clipboard. He had a fake smile pasted on his face. Gordon could tell he was only acting happy because it was his job. He'd probably been up all night. Maybe the smile was just the caffeine talking. He looked like a coffee drinker.

"Morning, doc," Gordon grunted out. He didn't know what was good about it, but it was better than the previous night.

"It looks like you have a visitor today, Jim." The doctor's voice was patronizing, like he was more used to talking to children than hardened policemen. In the doorway just behind him was a well-built but mousy-looking man, who appeared to shrink into his voluminous overcoat. His face was partly shadowed by a fedora, and covered by thick-rimmed glasses.

The mousy man entered the room and offered his hand to Jim. "Hello, Mr. Gordon. My name is Clark Kent." His voice was muted and demure, as if he was too embarrassed to make eye contact.

Gordon recognized the name. "Aren't you the reporter from the—"

"—_Daily Planet_. Yes, Mr. Gordon."

"So what do you want with me? You'll have to wait a bit before I can give an interview. What happened last night is still all fuzzy."

"Oh no, Mr. Gordon, of course not! I'm an investigative reporter, you see and—"

"And what?"

Kent paused for a moment, as if he was trying to piece together just the right sentence. Word choice was everything for these reporter types. "I have received tips—_sources—_that indicate that you might be able to assist me in a particularly intriguing story."

"Well, what do you want me to do?"

Kent glanced over his shoulder, as if to check that the doctor wasn't listening. His voice became hushed, as he said, "I need to know everything _you_ know about the Batman."

Batman? Not even Barbara knew about him and Batman. _He _didn't know anything about Batman. "I'm sorry, Kent. I can't help you out there."

"But I know that you've seen him. You were there at his first appearance. You were there when he fought the Red Hood. He has consistently appeared on the cases _you_ are working on."

"Mr. Kent, are you insinuating that I have some personal connection to Batman? I don't know who he is. Nobody in this city knows who he is."

"But he was sighted at your apartment building just two nights ago."

"By whom?"

Kent grew visibly nervous. He glanced downward and sighed before recovering. "I can't reveal my sources, sir. But if you agree to help me in this investigation, you will be handsomely rewarded."

"I'll have to think about it."


	22. Chapter 22: Oswald's Plan

Chapter 22

It was evening at the Cobblepot estate. Oswald sat slumped over in his study, dwarfed by the enormous portrait of his parents that hung just above the desk. He was poring over a map of Gotham City, with newspapers and magazines strewn about the oaken desk. He scribbled fervently over the map with a fountain pen, in illegible chicken-scratch handwriting that only he could comprehend. It was just as well. He couldn't risk this plan falling into anyone's hands.

Of course it wasn't the best plan. He had only just come up with it yesterday. But it was brilliant. Of course it was brilliant. He had just come up with it yesterday. Something about Batman's little visit had awakened his inner criminal, it seemed. If the supposed guardian of Gotham was able to so blatantly disregard the rule of law, then criminality was the only sensible way to live in life. Of course, he also admired that Joker character. Such audacity!

He gazed upward at his parents' portrait. Perhaps they were his inspiration as well. He wanted to be everything they didn't want him to be. Especially mother. She had coddled him so much, kept him away from real life for so long, he felt more at home with his birds than his human friends. And father didn't do anything to help, either. Tall and athletic, it was hard to believe that ugly, obese Oswald was his son. He'd all but disowned Oswald. He probably would have, if Oswald had not been his only son. It was like that with the aristocracy. An heir was better than no heir.

He grabbed a page of the newspaper and circled the headline with a bold, definitive circle. "Bruce Wayne Obtains Priceless Jade Egg." He didn't have any kind of personal vendetta against the millionaire, but his new toy was just too good to pass up. A jade egg from fifteenth-century China was the perfect heist for an eccentric like him. It would go perfectly with his collection of Romanov-era Russian Easter eggs. And what a rush it would be! How exciting to break down society's barriers!

But how to go about this plan? He'd scribbled notes all over the map: known hideouts for the recently-defunct Red Hood gang, possible escape routes from Wayne Manor, the migratory flight pattern of the Canadian goose through the city, everything. He would need accomplices, yes. Maybe he could step in to fill that void in the underworld. That Roman Falcone couldn't hog all of the fun, now could he?

He couldn't help but think that all this was making him crazy. He was a perfectly upstanding, law-abiding citizen, now planning grand larceny. Maybe there was something in the water. But no, he wasn't crazy. Crazy people didn't know they were crazy. And this was a good plan, a brilliant plan. After all, he had thought of it.


	23. Chapter 23: The Plan is Foiled

Chapter 23

It was quiet at Wayne Manor. The only sound Oswald could hear was the polite humming of his car's engine as it cruised down the road. He gripped the steering wheel deliberately, his face twisted into an evil grimace, with a cigarette holder poking out of the right side of his mouth. This was going to be a riot.

He pulled the car into the mansion's circular driveway, tires squealing in excitement. "All right, men! It's time to pull us off a heist!"

The four henchmen he had brought with him drew their tommy guns from inside their trench coats like this was some routine job. They obviously lacked the zeal that was required for a job like this. They needed to be excited if this was going to work. Such hackneys.

This was all going to go according to plan. Oswald adjusted his monocle and glanced at his pocket watch. 12:58 A.M. At the stroke of one, he would burst in through Wayne Manor's doors, his henchmen sending bullets raining down on anyone who would challenge them. He would raise his umbrella high, and deftly swipe that precious Chinese jade egg, announcing that Gotham's underworld had a new king. It was masterful, brilliant. After all, he had come up with it.

"It's almost time," he barked, "You, Tiny, the big one! Break down that door for me, will ya?"

Tiny hurtled his goliath girth toward Wayne Manor's fine oaken doors, sending them splintering inward with a resounding crash. Then the clock struck one. It was an antique clock, and from the sound of it, Swiss. Its chimes were mellow and low, but steady and dignified. Mr. Wayne had good taste in timekeeping.

But now it was time for his entrance. Oswald straightened his posture and donned his top hat, then strode over the manor's threshold with his nose held high and his umbrella fashionably tucked under one arm. He had to inspire awe. He signaled to the gunmen, and they let loose with a sporadic stream of gunfire with no particular target in mind. Yes! This was exquisitely grandiose, but there was no one around to see it. No matter. If this Wayne fellow was too busy sleeping, then it served him right to have a priceless jade egg purloined from right under his nose.

"Gentlemen, I believe that the egg is in Mr. Wayne's study, just up this flight of stairs. Follow me, and shut up your guns for once. It doesn't look like we'll be needing them for once."

He gripped the banister and pulled himself up the stairs. They were much too steep, especially for someone with such stubby legs as his. He couldn't help but feel that his goons were laughing at him behind his back. But it didn't matter. This heist was going wonderfully.

He grasped the steel doorknob and opened the door to Bruce Wayne's study. And there it was, sitting in a glass display case next to a bookshelf: the priceless jade egg. He hastily opened the case and snatched the egg, only to hear something move behind him. He spun around, clutching the egg to his chest, pointing his umbrella forward like a weapon. He heard muffled grunts and moans from outside the study door.

He nervously poked his head outside of the study, umbrella still in hand, and saw his four goons slumped over, unconscious. This couldn't be good. Something moved again, in the shadows, something familiar.

"Hello, Mr. Cobblepot. I don't think that belongs to you."

Oswald suppressed a scream as he clutched the egg even tighter, closer to his rapidly-beating heart. "Show yourself, Batman!"

"I don't feel like that." Oswald felt a sharp pain in the back of his head, and then a hand reached from behind him and tried to grab the egg. He threw off his attacker and aimed his umbrella at the shadows. "I'm warning you, Batman! This isn't filled with birdseed!"

Oswald opened the umbrella, releasing a steady stream of bullets down the hallway. He heard them burrow into walls and break glass, but he couldn't tell whether or not he had hit Batman. Then he heard a grunt, and saw a flash of blood fly out of the shadows. He had hit Batman! He stopped firing for a second, just enough time for a fist to fly out of the darkness and hit him square in the forehead. He was down, and his vision became blurred. The man who had hit him stepped out of the shadows. He wasn't dressed in costume, he wasn't wearing a cape. But he couldn't make out the man's face before he finally drifted into unconsciousness.


	24. Chapter 24: Stool Pigeon

Chapter 24

Gordon limped up the stairs and into police headquarters, leaning on a cane. The doctors said that there would be no permanent damage. How oddly merciful of the Joker. But maybe putting him out of commission for two days was just what the Joker wanted. He could get to Gotham's finest if he wanted to. He was just trying to make the cops look like imbeciles while getting away with murder.

Gordon's knees still couldn't bend all the way, but he could walk, that was all that mattered. He half-expected all of the caps to go into a flurry of excitement when he came back to work, but he wasn't surprised when nobody even glanced at him. Hero Cop indeed. Maybe he should have taken the doctor's advice and stayed home. Barbara would have certainly appreciated him more than these lowlifes.

To his surprise, he was approached by one Sergeant Henry, who looked less pleased than relieved to see him. "Captain Gordon, we've apprehended a criminal who claims to know the identity of the Batman. His name is Oswald Cobblepot, apprehended at Wayne Manor early this morning," he said hastily. He had been up all night, surely. Almost all of them had.

A slicing pain shot through Gordon's left knee, but he tried to ignore it. Right now, there were more important matters at hand. "Show me to him."

Henry led Gordon to the interrogation room. Inside, a short and portly man sat behind the nondescript table, his stubby fingers crossed while twiddling his thumbs. He turned his head to see Gordon and peered down his beaklike nose at him. "So at last I meet the famous Jim Gordon, scourge of the Gotham Underworld." His voice was laced with sardonic irony.

Gordon laid his hands on the table, partly to support himself and partly to appear more dominant and threatening. He couldn't be a recovering gas-attack victim here. Here he was the Hero Cop all of the newspapers said he was. "What were you doing last night?"

"I thought you police folk knew that already. I had been pulling off the heist of the decade when the insufferable Batman foiled me. I doubt your blue bumblers would have even noticed that a crime had been committed at the manor if it weren't for him."

"Enough. So Batman got you. What makes you so different from all those lunatics he picks up almost every night? Why do you think you know who he is?"

"You see, Captain," he pronounced condescendingly, "I am not like your average tool or goon or whatever the mobsters are calling them these days. I am in a different league. I was able to violate the sanctity of Batman's very lair. I saw him without costume. I saw the pitiful face behind the cowl."

Not like he was going to tell Jim now, without even a lawyer present. No, Oswald wanted to use this as leverage. He wanted to trade information for a lighter sentence. But Gordon knew he was bluffing, he had to be bluffing. However—

"I'd recommend you talk to a lawyer, Mr. Cobblepot. Our conversation is over." Gordon turned and left the interrogation room, leaving a smug grin on Cobblepot's face. He would have to get this information out legally. No bribes, no backdoor deals. The criminal would get his due, even if it meant losing this chance to discover who Batman truly was.


	25. Chapter 25: Home Invasion

Chapter 25

Barbara winced as the hot stem from her stew reached her hand. She'd have to give it time to cool before Jim got home. She quickly ran it under cold water and removed the bandage from her other hand. It still stung from the other day, but the swelling had started to go down.

She had kept the radio turned off; for fear that the Joker might reach out from it and grab her. It was a silly fear, but she wasn't going to even risk hearing that psychopath's voice again. She couldn't imagine what Jim had to be going through. Being gassed by that monster while he killed somebody right next to him! Jim was a hardened policeman, but it was like Joker was trying to break him, drive him insane.

She had bolted the doors tightly, closed the windows, and kept a gun underneath her pillow. But she still didn't feel any safer if Jim wasn't around. She had watched him hobble away that morning, back to the daily grind. She had begged him not to go. The doctors had told him not to go. But nothing would change his mind. He always put the welfare of the city above his own.

Suddenly, a loud rapping rang out from the door. She froze, and all of the worst scenarios flashed through her mind. Terrible things. Anything from a deranged maniac to a mythical hellspawn could have been behind the door. She didn't want to look. She couldn't look. She couldn't answer the door, not even if she wanted to.

The knocking came again, louder this time. She left the kitchen and cautiously crept into the bedroom, retrieving the handgun from underneath her pillow. More knocking: harder, more irregular. She was sorely tempted to fire the gun at the door, just to kill whatever might be behind it. But that would be foolish. Suppose it was a neighbor, wanting to check up on her, or even Jim come home early from work. She couldn't let paranoia get the best of her.

"Who is it?" she said demurely, but loud enough to be hear through the door.

The voice that answered was deep and gravelly, almost fake. "Special delivery for Mrs. Gordon!"

"I'm sorry sir. I didn't order anything."

"I know." The voice was higher now, more familiar. She had heard it before: the same faux-aristocratic accent, the same broken and insane speech pattern. No! Not _him!_

She heard a beating on the door again, then a hacking sound. He was taking an axe to the door! He was coming in! That monster was coming in! She excitedly fired the gun three times. Her aim was off. Only one shot even hit the door. And the hacking continued. She fired again. No yelp, no scream. Either he liked being shot at or she was still missing. She pulled back the hammer and tried to fire again. Empty. The gun was empty after only four shots. No!

She saw splinters of the door bursting inward, then a gangly purple glove shove itself inward and wiggle its fingers. Then a great red fire-axe finally broke a hole through the wood. And she saw the face. The ghoulish white clown face squeezed through the cracks and flashed Barbara its most sadistic and terrifying grin.

"_Heeeeeere's Joker!"_


	26. Chapter 26: Loose Talk

Chapter 26

Clark pulled his car up to the curb and parked it. He adjusted his glasses and glanced at his notepad. He had scribbled some notes there in a barely legible hand. Sometimes even he couldn't read his own chicken scratch. Regrettably, super-handwriting was not one of his powers.

"Gordon. Cobblepot knows Batman. Plea bargain?" it said. This Cobblepot character had broken into Wayne Manor last night, and had been claiming to know the secret identity of Batman. Of course, the police were doing their best to shut up the rumors, but they had reached Clark's ears nonetheless. Maybe this gentleman thief could be the integral clue in discovering the true identity of Batman. Or maybe he was just trying to weasel his way out of a few years in jail. Either way, Clark needed the police department's take on the situation.

Inside, a flurry of news reporters and citizens clamored for attention like a gaggle of birds vying over a piece of bread. Clark's ears started ringing, like they always did when there was so much noise. Commissioner Loeb, that stout, balding man amidst the bedlam, was attempting to calm the fury down. "Please, ladies and gentlemen, please. We have our top men working on this one. We cannot confirm or deny the truth of Mr. Cobblepot's allegations."

A woman's voice cried out, "Is it true that the department is opening an investigation into the true identity of the vigilante Batman based on this recent evidence?"

"I cannot confirm or deny—"

"Commissioner Loeb, you could be sitting on some crucial information here. It's our job as the press to inform the citizenry of developments in this case!"

Another voice shouted, "Has Bruce Wayne been contacted about these allegations? Is Bruce Wayne really the Batman?"

A different voice responded from just behind Clark, "I sure hope not. I lose enough sleep already as it is."

Clark turned his head and saw a handsome, but foppish looking man dressed in a business suit. He had somewhat sloppily-combed hair and his left arm in a sling. There were a few fresh cuts on his face, and bruises on his free hand. His baggy and loose-fitting suit seemed to conceal his athletic physique. Something about his whole appearance suggested a masquerade.

"I don't know what the Penguin said about me, but I think I've got the right to defend my home when it's threatened by burglars."

Clark quickly turned his notepad to a new page and asked, "Mr. Wayne, did you engage Mr. Cobblepot in any direct physical combat last night?"

Wayne indicated his arm, "How do you think I got this? That Penguin's got a gun shoved up in an umbrella. I'm lucky I was able to punch his lights out before he hit anything else with it."

A young redheaded woman muscled past Clark and barked, "Mr. Wayne, Vicki Vale, Gotham Gazette. How is it that you were able to take out both Mr. Cobblepot's armed men and Cobblepot himself, without sustaining any serious injury?"

"Miss Vale, I would hardly call a bullet wound to the arm a minor injury," Clark interjected.

Wayne waved his hand as if to silence Clark, then said, "Don't worry. My butler used to be a medic in the British army. He's treated wounds worse than mine. As to your question, Miss Vale, I studied the ancient art of Oriental martial arts in Tibet during the war. A man in my high station needs to defend himself."

"So how do you respond to Mr. Cobblepot's allegations?"

"Absolute schlock, hooey, poppycock, balderdash, and a bunch of other words I don't know."

The reporters laughed, all except Clark. He was too intrigued. If Cobblepot was just flinging accusations, then he had picked a perfect subject. Much of Bruce Wayne's life was a mystery. He rarely gave interviews, and ever since his return to Gotham's social circles a year ago, made few public appearances and rarely talked about what he was up to during the war years. If Bruce Wayne had no secrets, his veneer suggested otherwise.


	27. Chapter 27: The Crying Clown

Chapter 27

It smelled like blood when Barbara woke up. That was all she could sense at first, then she felt cold, like some wind had just come in through a drafty window. But she couldn't see. It smelled like blood. She couldn't hear anything. Everything was silent. It was silent, cold, and it smelled like blood. Then the sound came and shattered everything like glass. It was a laugh, a piercing shriek of a laugh that suddenly shocked her into remembering.

He had come into the house, broken down the door, beaten her senseless and then—she didn't know where she was or what he had done to her since then. She couldn't see, so he must have blindfolded her. She couldn't move, so he must have tied her. Was the smell from her own blood or from something else? What was going to happen to her? What was going to happen to Jim? What was going to happen to the baby?

"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!"

"What are you going to do with me?" She was afraid to think about it. If he hadn't killed her yet, he was probably working on something worse.

"You know, Babs," he said, "you remind me of somebody special, very dear to my heart." Joker's voice mellowed, and lost most of its erratic quality.

"What do you mean?"

"You know I wasn't always like this, Babs. Before old Fledermaus threw me into that green goo, I was just like you, or your people, I should say. I had a family, just like you. She was a lot like you, my wife was. I still remember when we first met. She called me her funnyman. She was the only one who laughed at my jokes.

"But our idyllic life wasn't meant to be. Old Boss Charlie brought me in on his racket, to earn some extra cash, you know. He had me dress up like some space robot and traipse around a chemical plant so the cops would shoot me first. Stupid idea, I know. But Jamie, that was her name, you know, had a baby on the way. We were going to name him Jack, after his dear old dad.

"Then, sudden tragedy! Jamie electrocuted herself warming a baby bottle, and I took a bath in some sludge the same day, making me the man I am now. Can't you see it, Babs? How I'm nothing more than the victim of a harsh and repressive society? How I'm the deranged product of a heartless system?"

Barbara felt tears welling up in her eyes. She didn't fear him any less, but she could sympathize with such a broken and sad monster. His refusal to kill her, his familiar form of speech around her, his sudden and unprovoked exposure of his damaged psyche to her; perhaps she had tapped into the heart behind the madman. Perhaps she could help him!

"Is it true? Is this why you killed all those people? To get revenge for what they did to you?"

"Of course not, you simpleton putz! I was just messing with you! It's what I like to do best!"


	28. Chapter 28: The Ultimatum

Chapter 28

Oswald sat alone in his holding cell, twiddling his fingers while that insufferable jazz music blared out of the guard's radio set. It was vulgar, that music was. "Turn that rubbish down!" he snapped.

The blue-clad policeman reclined in his swivel chair and tossed a smoldering cigar butt into the ashtray on his desk before retrieving another one from his shirt pocket. He stuck the cigar between his teeth and lit it. "Seems to me," he said, "you've just got no taste in music."

"Seems to me that you're a philistine. Tell me what artistic or humanistic value that execrable Negro music is going to have in twenty years!"

"It's the music of the age, my avian friend. From the sounds of things, you'd be more comfortable in a German opera house, just before '39. And it doesn't matter what you think about it. It's my radio, my rules."

Oswald swore under his breath. If giving up crime meant not having to sit here listening to someone else's music, then he would become a priest. But crime was much too fun to just give up, to kick like a bad habit. It was such a rush to infiltrate another man's house, to steal from him and make a clean getaway. Of course, he hadn't counted on Bruce Wayne being able to dispatch him so quickly. Had that really been Bruce Wayne in the shadows that night? The voice had seemed so familiar. He had been sure it was Batman.

The endless droll of the radio continued, until at once it was interrupted by static. Oswald's heart skipped. The guard dropped his cigar as he attempted to change the station. But there was static on every station. The static continued for a few long seconds, then became punctuated by gasps and wheezes, then laughter.

"Hello, everybody! It's time for another one of Uncle Joker's fireside chats! Tonight, we have a special guest, Barbara Gordon, who as you are probably all aware is the better half of famed zero cop Jim Gordon. Say hi to all of the lovely people, Babs!"

A muffled shriek followed, unmistakably feminine. "Now I'd like to know why everybody in this messed-up little town is so obsessed with a chap who dresses in sheets and scares people. I'd like to know if he's as heroic as he says he is, so I'm issuing an ultimatum. Of course, I'm going to have to explain that to all of you degenerates out there who haven't managed to maintain a polysyllabic vocabulary. I want Batman here by the time the bells of St. Andrew's Cathedral toll twelve times tonight. I, of course, will be in the belfry, where I'm sure someone like Batman will have no trouble reaching me. Of course, if he doesn't show, Babs here is going to take the fall for his cowardice. A very long fall. Ha he hoo ha!"

Joker had reached Gordon's wife! Oswald was simultaneously bemused and horrified at this. He wasn't bumping off street criminals or corrupt millionaires anymore. Joker was killing anyone he felt like killing. Suddenly, Oswald's holding cell felt very comfortable.

"Oh, and one more thing. Obviously, I can't have the whole police force coming after me, so I want Batman and Batman only. If I see so much as one blue boy set foot in that belfry, Mrs. Gordon is sidewalk spaghetti. Capiche? Have a lovely day, everyone."


	29. Chapter 29: Bat in the Belfry

Chapter 29

St. Anthony's cathedral loomed over the Gotham cityscape like a gothic giant, poking out of the urban decay around it as a reminder of times past. Its arches and columns evoked a sense of reverence and order, while its bells chimed every hour to signify that the world went on as it always had. It was solid and permanent, like a cornerstone to the city's rotting foundations.

But far below its spires and parapets stood a small and insignificant man, wrapped in a trench coat and smoking a cigarette. It wasn't out of habit this time. His wife was as good as dead and his unborn child as well. That psychopath clown had them, and was threatening to hurl them onto the sidewalk if the police so much as set foot inside the cathedral. He was a nervous wreck of the worst kind, the kind that would collapse at any moment, only held together by the noxious fumes of cigarette smoke. Only two years before, he had come home from the war. He had thought that the fighting and killing would stop, that the world would return to peaceful normalcy, that the lunatics wouldn't start running things, taking over the asylum, as it were. He had been wrong, so very wrong.

Above him, perched on a ledge, loomed the shadowy figure of a dark avenger. No one knew his purpose or his identity. To some, he wasn't even a human, just a phantasmal vision, a shadow or spirit come to rescue or punish them. His cloak lapped in the wind and he stared down at the figure in the street below, silently waiting for some epiphany, some miracle to come down from on high. He knew that man, and knew something of the pain he felt, though he would dare not express it.

The cloaked figure silently sprang from the ledge and latched onto the side of the cathedral. The police searchlights caught a glimpse of him as they scanned the walls for any signs of him or the murderer he was chasing. But he eluded them, deftly scaling the wall discreetly.

The bell-tower of St. Anthony's was as magnificent and haunting as the rest of the cathedral. His footsteps creaked as he stepped across the wooden floorboards, creating a hollow echoing sound throughout the belfry. Pale moonlight pierced the windows, creating mystical geometric patterns all over the bells and walls. It was the full, bright kind of moonlight that only came on those darkest nights of the year. The criminal had chosen this night well for his crime.

There was a scream, a muffled scream that reverberated throughout the spacious chamber, and then a loud and clanging bell rang, as if to drown out the sound that came before it. Then, a laugh. A cold, terrible and psychotic laugh shrieked like a banshee, creating a cacophonous disharmony with the ringing.

"Well, well, well! Guano Man and I finally meet again, face-to-face! Well, at least I can see you. You'll just have to follow my voice and find me, if you can at all."

The caped shadow whirled around as the voice echoed all around him, before there was silence again.

"It seems we have a bat in our belfry, and a blind one at that!"

Footsteps sounded behind him, he turned and raised his fists defensively. There, illuminated by the dancing moonlight, was the chalk-faced killer. He raised a revolver and pulled back the hammer. "Tell me boy," he said, "have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?"


	30. Chapter 30: Dance with the Devil

Chapter 30

Everything was silent for about a minute. It was the longest minute of Barbara's life. She could see Batman silhouetted against the moonlight, looking like a grim gargoyle come to life. Her arms strained against her bonds in the vain hope that she might free herself while Batman kept the Joker distracted.

She heard the clown laugh again, then a blast from the muzzle of the gun. Smoke filled the air, but Batman stood there still, unfazed by the Joker's trickery. She caught a glimpse of the Joker waving around the trick gun, an innocuous "Bang" flag sticking out of the barrel. He giggled a bit, and then tossed the gun behind him. It bounced off of the floorboards before sliding towards her. She strained against the ropes again, her muscles tense with adrenaline.

"You're a sick man, murciélago, mi amigo," said the Joker, "You didn't even crack a smile at that one. Oh, the kids love it!"

Batman lunged forward, but the Joker deftly sidestepped him and drew another handgun from his belt.

"Ah, ah, ah, pipistrello! One more punch and the fat lady gets it!" He turned and aimed the gun right at Barbara's squirming figure, "And this gun is loaded with pure, unadulterated lead. Anywho, where was I? Ah yes, your lack of humor."

Barbara screamed through her gag. Her eyes met Batman's. His expression didn't change, but she read his eyes. He wanted her to be all right. She could tell it from the way he looked at her.

"Are you going to stand there and monologue all night, or are we going to settle this like men?"

Joker pulled the hammer down on the gun. "Now, now, Batman, I want you to understand why I'm doing this. If nothing else, this little oratory will give some meaning to Babs' otherwise meaningless existence."

He fired at Barbara. She shrieked and pulled all of her limbs close together to make herself a smaller target. She heard the sound of splintering wood crack just above her head.

"Oh, would you look at that? You made me miss."

Batman seized the brief moment to land a solid uppercut to the Joker's chin, sending the gun flying from his hand and it discharged, the second shot ricocheting off of a bell with an echoing ring. The Joker returned Batman's punch with a high kick to Batman's collarbone as he drew his switchblade from his coat pocket.

"You see what happens when people refuse to behave? We could have talked this out like gentlemen, but you wanted to settle this like Neanderthals."

Joker lunged forward with his knife aimed at Batman's chest, but Batman seized his wrist, stopping the blade just short of the fabric covering his chest. "You're crazy, Joker."

"I know you are, but what am I?"

Batman kneed Joker in the sternum, causing him to fall to the floor, only to stumble himself when Joker delivered a low kick to his shins.

"You're just as crazy as I am, Bat-boy. I've seen how you deal with people. But unlike me, your insanity is mitigated by some outside force, preventing you from going all Lizzy Borden on Gotham's populace."

Batman sprung back to his feet and forced his fists down towards Joker's face. Ever nimble, Joker rolled away from Batman's punch, rose to his feet, and delivered a swift karate chop to the back of Batman's head.

"You're not heroic. You're just stupid. You've convinced yourself that playing dress-up is going to give your life one iota of purpose. If you ask me, you oughta stop trying so hard."

Joker placed one more kick to Batman's side before reaching for his switchblade. To his confusion, it was gone. It had spun out of his hands in the tussle, and landed right beside his captive.

Barbara hastily rubbed her hands against the switchblade's exposed edge, feeling a rush of relief as the ropes holding her hands snapped off. She did the same for the rope around her ankles then pulled off her gag. She pulled herself to her feet, feeling a sense of disorientation come over her quickly. But she didn't have time to be nauseous. She grabbed a sizeable piece of floorboard and crept up behind the Joker as he stood over Batman.

She screamed her most impassioned scream as she brought the plank down over Joker's head. He fell forward as Batman stood up again. Barbara looked at Batman. He glanced at her and gave a subtle but approving nod before hoisting up Joker's gangly body by his lapel.

"You asked me if I had ever danced with the devil. I did, right now, right here. He had two left feet."

Batman slammed Joker into the side of a church bell, the ringing continued.

"Ha ha ha! You're just as crazy as me! You're going to kill me here, bash my brains out!"

Batman slammed him into the bell again. "I'm not going to kill you. I'm not that nice." He threw Joker to the floor and pinned him down with a foot on his chest.

Joker wheezed as blood trickled out of his mouth, "You know, Fledermaus, I think I like you. I've never met someone so insane yet so in denial. Oh! What marvelous games we can play!"

The tumultuous tintinnabulation reverberated throughout the belfry, followed soon by shrieks and chatters as a flurry of bats swooped down and flew around erratically. Batman stood unflinching in their midst as Barbara shrank from the swarm. He was the very picture of the night.


	31. Chapter 31: The Evasive Truth

Chapter 31

Clark smelled the distinctive odor of dried coffee and cigarette smoke as he entered the holding area of the police station. Jazz music blurted out of the radio on the guard's desk.

"I've had enough of that tripe!" blurted a squawky voice from inside the cell, "Turn it off or so help me I'll strangle you!"

The guard paid no attention to the prisoner's ramblings. "You the newspaper guy?"

Clark adjusted his glasses nervously. "Yes, I am. I'm here to speak with a Mr. Cobblepot?"

"You can talk to my face! I'm right over here!"

"Ah, yes, well—" Clark reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil, "—you recently claimed to know the Batman's secret identity—"

"Not that again! I only consented to this interview to tell _my_ side of the story; how I was temporarily insane and delusional when I broke into the unfortunate Mr. Wayne's house."

Clark ignored him. He was just projecting a smokescreen. Clark knew that there had to be some truth in his accusations. Oswald wasn't temporarily insane. He was the picture of mental health; any doctor could have told him that.

"Are you going to tell the truth or am I wasting my time?"

Oswald averted his eyes and dropped them to the floor while nervously twiddling his thumbs: A clear sign of a guilty conscience if there ever was one. He was conflicted, unable to decide between his own self-preservation and his innate desire to come clean. At length, he spoke.

"Mr. Kent," his voice had reverted to its usual genteel veneer, "I broke into Mr. Wayne's manor under extreme duress. While I might have misstated myself in calling said trauma temporary insanity, it was motivated only by the spirit of _tu quo que._

Clark lowered his glassed to the tip of his nose skeptically. "Do mean to tell me, Mr. Cobblepot, that Mr. Wayne broke into your house, too?"

"Precisely. Of course, he did not call himself Bruce Wayne when he did it, he was all dressed up in his bat costume then. I reported the incident to the police, and like the incompetent buffoons they are, they did nothing about it."

"Pardon my frankness, Mr. Cobblepot, but why would Bruce Wayne want to break and enter into the home of a reclusive eccentric like yourself?"

"He thought that I had something to do with the Joker killings going on then. I was the third business partner in that Ace Chemicals deal back in the 30's. Always knew that would come back to haunt me."

"Do you still maintain that Bruce Wayne is Batman?"

"If I said no, I would look like an idiot."

"And what evidence would you have to prove this?"

"None, really, Mr. Kent. One just _knows_ these things, once one hears him twice. I can tell, you know," he gestured toward his ear, "years of bird watching have attuned me to the unique voice of every bird on my grounds. Likewise, I remember every voice I hear. The voices of Batman and Bruce Wayne were identical, no matter how much Mr. Wayne tried to disguise them."

"You haven't listened to the news, then, Mr. Cobblepot."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You shot Bruce Wayne in the shoulder the night you invaded his home. According to Captain Gordon's wife, Batman exhibited no sign of injury during his capture of the Joker."

"And why should the word of a shell-shocked woman mean anything to me? If he's expected to maintain such an elaborate charade as this Batman business, I'd assume he would be able to hide the wound quite adeptly."

"But you still have no proof."

"I thought you were here to interview me, not interrogate me!"

Clark paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. He couldn't become too confrontational with his interviewees. This wasn't Superman settling a dispute with a solid punch to the sternum, it was Clark Kent adroitly uncovering the truth with words.

"Do you still maintain your innocence?"

"I never said I was innocent. I said I was driven to crime under extreme duress. That is my story, and I'll tell you nothing further."

Clark closed the pad and put the pen inside his jacket pocket. He silently pondered the plausibility of Oswald's assertions. True, he had no real proof, but no one had any proof that Clark Kent was Superman either. If only he could be certain about this; he wished that the old truth-revealing mirror inside his Fortress was in his pocket right now.


	32. Chapter 32: The Detective Unmasked

Chapter 32

It was a new moon that night. From his position on the rooftop of Lennie's Neighborhood Bar and Grill, Clark could hear all sorts of sounds coming from the houses all around him. It stank like the back alley of a Metropolis train station all around him. Surely the Batman was prowling somewhere around here. He would sense the crime before the thought of it had even entered the criminal's head.

Clark waited for another hour. He heard alley cats hissing and bar fights breaking out, but he didn't notice any sign of the Batman. Or he didn't notice any sign of the Batman until the masked crime-fighter gave him a start by tapping him on the shoulder.

"Batman! I'm surprised I didn't hear you coming."

"I'd say the Last Son of Krypton should be more observant of his surroundings, or do those bright red and blue tights make you abandon any pretense of stealth, Clark?"

"Starfish aliens and humungous robots don't exactly slink around back alleyways and mug people. I'm just not cut out for the kind of work you do."

"I'd say so."

Clark reached inside his coat pocket and retrieved a crisp Early Edition of the _Daily Planet,_ unfurling it to allow the headline to show.

Batman read it aloud, "Bruce Wayne Denies Batman Allegations. Why should I care that Bruce Wayne says he's not me? I should be more worried that the Joker story was moved to page 2. Your people have some of the worst news judgment ever, Kent."

Clark ignored Batman's slam against his boss's editorial choices. He knew that Perry always went with what would sell papers, not what actually mattered. "You should care, Bruce, because both you and I know that Bruce Wayne is lying."

Batman smirked subtly. "So you figured it out, did you?"

"Your cover story is too perfect, Wayne. The rich idiot with no day job cover story isn't going to fly for long. You've let the bit out already about your fighting prowess. People are going to start wondering what you do with your ample leisure time."

"So what do you suggest I do? You haven't exactly kept your identity hush-hush. I'd wager everybody on the staff at the _Planet_ knows already and are just keeping mum to humor you. What tips could _you _possibly give me?"

"I'd get a girlfriend."

"And how would that help me?"

"Nobody would ever ask you where you spend your nights."

Clark sensed that Batman was trying not to laugh. "You keep your ideas to yourself and your nose out of my city from now on. Okay, blue boy?"

Batman crouched and readied himself to leap from the rooftop. "Just one more thing," said Clark, "have you thought about the Justice League's offer?"

"I'll have to think about it a little more."


End file.
